The  Branding  Iron 


BNIV,  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  I,O8  ANGELES 


i- 


"WILL  YOU  BE  COMIN'  HOME  WITH  ME,  GEL  ?"  (page  16) 


The  Branding  Iron 

By 

Katharine  Newlin  Burt 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLLN  COMPANY 


1919 


COPYRIGHT,    1919,    BY   THE   RIDGWAY    COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,    1919,    BY    KATHARINE    N.    BUR.T 

ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


Contents 

Book  One 
THE  TWO-BAR  BRAND 

I.  Joan  Reads  by  Firelight 3 

II.  Pierre  Lays  his  Hand  on  a  Heart        ...  1* 

III.  Two  Pictures  in  the  Fire 81 

IV.  The  Sin-Buster 85 

V.  Pierre  Becomes  Alarmed  about  his  Property  .  38 

VI.  Pierre  Takes  Steps  to  Preserve  his  Property   .  42 

VII.  The  Judgment  of  God 51 

VIII.  Delirium 56 

IX.  Dried  Rose-Leaves 61 

X.  Prosper  Comes  to  a  Decision        ....  72 

XL  The  Whole  Duty  of  Woman         ....  80 

XII.  A  Matter  of  Taste     .......  91 

XIII.  The  Training  of  a  Leopardess       ....  100 

XIV.  Joan  Runs  Away 105 

XV.  Nerves  and  Intuition 116 

XVI.  The  Tall  Child 184 

XVII.  Concerning  Marriage 1S3 

Book  Two 

THE  ESTRAY 
I.  A  Wild  Cat 1*8 

n.  Morena's  Wife  .  168 


2126538 


vi  Contents 

III.  Jane 17* 

IV.  Flight 184 

V.  Luck's  Play 193 

VI.  Joan  and  Prosper 207 

VII.  Aftermath 217 

VIII.  Against  the  Bars 229 

IX.  Gray  Envelopes 238 

X.  The  Spider 257 

XI.  The  Clean  Wild  Thing 268 

XII.  The  Leopardess 286 

XIII.  The  End  of  the  Trail  .  302 


Illustrations 

"Will  you  be  comin'  home  with  me,  gel? "    .  Frontispiece 

"Did  you  see  what  happened?" 52 

Joan,  lying  so  still,  was  acquiescent 112 

Joan  watched 144 

The  stranger  dropped  to  his  heels,  squatted,  and  rolled 
a  cigarette 188 

From  drawings  by  Charles  Sarka 


The  Branding  Iron 

Book  One 
THE  TWO-BAR  BRAND 


The  Branding  Iron 

BOOK  ONE:  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

CHAPTER  I 
JOAN  READS  BY  FIRELIGHT 

riHHERE  is  no  silence  so  fearful,  so  breathless, 
•••  so  searching  as  the  night  silence  of  a  wild 
country  buried  five  feet  deep  in  snow.  For  thirty 
miles  or  so,  north,  south,  east,  and  west  of  the 
small,  half-smothered  speck  of  gold  in  Pierre 
Landis's  cabin  window,  there  lay,  on  a  certain 
December  night,  this  silence,  bathed  in  moon- 
light. The  cold  was  intense:  below  the  bench 
where  Pierre's  homestead  lay,  there  rose  from 
the  twisted,  rapid  river,  a  cloud  of  steam,  above 
which  the  hoar-frosted  tops  of  cottonwood  trees 
were  perfectly  distinct,  trunk,  branch,  and  twig, 
against  a  sky  the  color  of  iris  petals.  The  stars 
flared  brilliantly,  hardly  dimmed  by  the  full 
moon,  and  over  the  vast  surface  of  the  snow  mi- 
nute crystals  kept  up  a  steady  shining  of  their 
own.  The  range  of  sharp,  wind-scraped  moun- 
tains, uplifted  fourteen  thousand  feet,  rode  across 


4  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

the  country,  northeast,  southwest,  dazzling  in 
white  armor,  spears  up  to  the  sky,  a  sight,  seen 
suddenly,  to  take  the  breath,  like  the  crashing 
march  of  archangels  militant. 

In  the  center  of  this  ring  of  silent  crystal, 
Pierre  Landis's  logs  shut  in  a  little  square  of 
warm  and  ruddy  human  darkness.  Joan,  his  wife, 
made  the  heart  of  this  defiant  space  —  Joan,  the 
one  mind  living  in  this  ghostly  area  of  night.  She 
had  put  out  the  lamp,  for  Pierre,  starting  town- 
ward  two  days  before,  had  warned  her  with  a 
certain  threatening  sharpness  not  to  waste  oil, 
and  she  lay  on  the  hearth,  her  rough  head  almost 
in  the  ashes,  reading  a  book  by  the  unsteady 
light  of  the  flames.  She  followed  the  printed  lines 
with  a  strong,  dark  forefinger  and  her  lips  framed 
the  words  with  slow,  whispering  motions.  It  was 
a  long,  strong  woman's  body  stretched  there 
across  the  floor,  heavily  if  not  sluggishly  built, 
dressed  rudely  in  warm  stuffs  and  clumsy  boots, 
and  it  was  a  heavy  face,  too,  unlit  from  within, 
but  built  on  lines  of  perfect  animal  beauty.  The 
head  and  throat  had  the  massive  look  of  a  marble 
fragment  stained  to  one  even  tone  and  dug  up 
from  Attic  earth.  And  she  was  reading  thus 
heavily  and  slowly,  by  firelight  in  the  midst  of 
this  tremendous  Northern  night,  Keats's  version 


Joan  Reads  by  Firelight  5 

of  Boccaccio's  "Tale  of  Isabella  and  the  Pot  of 
Basil." 

The  story  for  some  reason  interested  her.  She 
felt  that  she  could  understand  the  love  of  young 
Lorenzo  and  of  Isabella,  the  hatred  of  those  two 
brothers  and  Isabella's  horrible  tenderness  for 
that  young  murdered  head.  There  were  even 
things  in  her  own  life  that  she  compared  with 
these;  ,in  fact,  at  every  phrase,  she  stopped,  and, 
staring  ahead,  crudely  and  ignorantly  visualized, 
after  her  own  experience,  what  she  had  just  read; 
and,  in  doing  so,  she  pictured  her  own  life. 

Her  love  and  Pierre's  —  her  life  before  Pierre 
came  —  to  put  herself  in  Isabella's  place,  she 
felt  back  to  the  days  before  her  love,  when  she 
had  lived  in  a  desolation  of  bleak  poverty,  up 
and  away  along  Lone  River  in  her  father's  shack. 
This  log  house  of  Pierre's  was  a  castle  by  con- 
trast. John  Carver  and  his  daughter  had  shared 
one  room  between  them;  Joan's  bed  curtained 
off  with  gunny-sacking  in  a  corner.  She  slept  on 
hides  and  rolled  herself  up  in  old  dingy  patch- 
work quilts  and  worn  blankets.  On  winter  morn- 
ings she  would  wake  covered  with  the  snow  that 
had  sifted  in  between  the  ill-matched  logs.  There 
had  been  a  stove,  one  leg  gone  and  substituted 
for  by  a  huge  cobblestone;  there  had  been  two 


6  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

chairs,  a  long  box,  a  table,  shelves  —  all  rudely 
made  by  John;  there  had  been  guns  and  traps 
and  snowshoes,  hides,  skins,  the  wings  of  birds,  a 
couple  of  fishing-rods  —  John  made  his  living  by 
legal  and  illegal  trapping  and  killing.  He  had 
looked  like  a  trapped  or  hunted  creature  himself, 
small,  furtive,  very  dark,  with  long  fingers  al- 
ways working  over  his  mouth,  a  great  crooked 
nose  —  a  hideous  man,  surely  a  hideous  father. 
He  hardly  ever  spoke,  but  sometimes,  coming 
home  from  the  town  which  he  visited  several 
times  a  year,  but  to  which  he  had  never  taken 
Joan,  he  would  sit  down  over  the  stove  and  go 
over  heavily,  for  Joan's  benefit,  the  story  of  his 
crime  and  his  escape. 

Joan  always  told  herself  that  she  would  not 
listen,  whatever  he  said  she  would  stop  her  ears, 
but  always  the  story  fascinated  her,  held  her, 
eyes  widened  on  the  figure  by  the  stove.  He  had 
sat  huddled  in  his  chair,  gnomelike,  his  face  con- 
torting with  the  emotions  of  the  story,  his  own 
brilliant  eyes  fixed  on  the  round,  red  mouth  of 
the  stove.  The  reflection  of  this  scarlet  circle 
was  hideously  noticeable  in  his  pupils. 

"A  man's  a  right  to  kill  his  woman  if  she  ain't 
honest  with  him,"  so  the  story  began;  "if  he 
finds  out  she's  ben  trickin'  of  him,  playin'  him 


Joan  Reads  by  Firelight  7 

off  fer  another  man.  That  was  yer  mother,  gel; 
she  was  a  bad  woman."  There  followed  a  coarse 
and  vivid  description  of  her  badness  and  the 
manner  of  it.  "That  kinder  thing  no  man  can 
let  pass  by  in  his  wife.  I  found  her"  —  again  the 
rude  details  of  his  discovery  -  "  an'  I  found  him, 
an'  I  let  him  go  fer  the  white-livered  coward  he 
was,  but  her  I  killed.  I  shot  her  dead  after  she  'd 
said  her  prayers  an'  asked  God's  mercy  on  her 
soul.  Then  I  walked  off,  but  they  kotched  me  an' 
I  was  tried.  They  did  n't  swing  me.  Out  in  them 
parts  they  knowed  I  was  in  my  rights;  so  the 
boys  held,  but  't  was  a  life  sentence.  They  tuk 
me  by  rail  down  to  Dawson  an'  I  give  'em  the 
slip,  handcuffs  an'  all.  Perhaps  't  was  only  a 
half-hearted  chase  they  made  fer  me.  Some  of 
them  fellers  mebbe  had  wives  of  their  own."  He 
always  stopped  to  laugh  at  this  point.  "An*  I  cut 
off  up  country  till  I  come  to  a  smithy  at  the  edge 
of  a  town.  I  hung  round  fer  a  spell  till  the  smith 
bed  gone  off  an'  I  got  into  his  place  an'  rid  me  of 
the  handcuffs.  'T  was  a  job,  but  I  was  n't  kotched 
at  it  an'  I  made  myself  free."  Followed  the  story 
of  his  wanderings  and  his  hardships  and  his  com- 
ing to  Lone  River  and  setting  out  his  traps.  "In 
them  days  there  were  n't  no  law  ag'in'  trappin' 
beaver.  A  man  could  make  a  honest  livin'.  Now 


8  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

they've  tuk  an*  made  laws  ag'in'  a  man's  bread 
an'  butter.  I  ask  ye,  if 't  ain't  wrong  on  a  Tuesday 
to  trap  yer  beaver,  why,  't  ain't  wrong  the  fol- 
lerin'  Tuesday.  I  don't  see  it,  jes  becos  some  fel- 
lers back  there  has  made  a  law  ag'in'  it  to  suit 
theirselves.  Anyway,  the  market  fer  beaver  hides 
is  still  prime.  Mebbe  I  '11  leave  you  a  f ortin,  gel. 
I  've  saved  you  from  badness,  anyhow.  I  risked  a 
lot  to  go  back  an'  git  you,  but  I  done  it.  You  was 
playin'  out  in  front  of  yer  aunt's  house  an'  I 
come  fer  you.  You  was  a  three-year-old  an'  a  big 
youngster.  Says  I,  'What's  yer  name?'  Says  you, 
*  Joan  Carver';  an'  I  knowed  you  by  yer  likeness 
to  her.  By  God !  I  swore  I  'd  save  ye.  I  tuk  you 
off  with  me,  though  you  put  up  a  fight  an'  I  hed 
to  use  you  rough  to  silence  you.  'There  ain't 
a-goin'  to  be  no  man  in  yer  life,  Joan  Carver,' 
says  I;  'you  an'  yer  big  eyes  is  a-goin'  to  be  fer 
me,  to  do  my  work  an'  to  look  after  my  comforts. 
No  pretty  boys  fer  you  an'  no  husbands  either 
to  go  a-shootin'  of  you  down  fer  yer  sins.'"  He 
shivered  and  shook  his  head.  "No,  here  you  stays 
with  yer  father  an'  grows  up  a  good  gel.  There 
ain't  a-goin'  to  be  no  man  in  yer  life,  Joan." 

But  youth  was  stronger  than  the  man's  half- 
crazy  will,  and  when  she  was  seventeen,  Joan 
ran  away. 


Joan  Reads  by  Firelight  9 

She  found  her  way  easily  enough  to  the  town, 
for  she  was  wise  in  the  tracks  of  a  wild  country, 
and  John's  trail  townwards,  though  so  rarely 
used,  was  to  her  eyes  plain  enough;  and  very 
coolly  she  walked  into  the  hotel,  past  the  group 
of  loungers  around  the  stove,  and  asked  at  the 
desk,  where  Mrs.  Upper  sat,  if  she  could  get  a 
job.  Mrs.  Upper  and  the  loungers  stared,  for 
there  were  few  women  in  this  frontier  country 
and  those  few  were  well  known.  This  great, 
strong  girl,  heavily  graceful  in  her  heavily  awk- 
ward clothes,  bareheaded,  shod  like  a  man,  her 
face  and  throat  purely  classic,  her  eyes  gray  and 
wide  and  as  secret  in  expression  as  an  untamed 
beast's  —  no  one  had  ever  seen  the  like  of  her 
before. 

"What's  yer  name?"  asked  Mrs.  Upper  suspi- 
ciously. It  was  Mormon  Day  in  the  town;  there 
were  celebrations  and  her  house  was  full;  she 
needed  extra  hands,  but  where  this  wild  creature 
was  concerned  she  was  doubtful. 

"Joan.  I'm  John  Carver's  daughter,"  an- 
swered the  girl. 

At  once  comprehension  dawned;  heads  were 
nodded,  then  craned  for  a  better  look.  Yes,  the 
town,  the  whole  country  even,  had  heard  of  John 
Carver's  imprisoned  daughter.  Sober  and  drunk, 


10  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

he  had  boasted  of  her  and  of  how  there  was  to  be 
"no  man"  in  her  life.  It  was  like  dangling  ripe 
fruit  above  the  mouths  of  hungry  boys  to  make 
such  a  boast  in  such  a  land.  But  they  were  lazy. 
It  was  a  country  of  lazy,  slow-thinking,  slow- 
moving,  and  slow-talking  adventurers  —  you 
will  notice  this  ponderous,  inevitable  quality  of 
rolling  stones  —  and  though  men  talked  with  hu- 
mor not  too  fine  of  "  travelin'  up  Lone  River  for 
John's  gel,"  not  a  man  had  got  there.  Perhaps 
the  men  knew  John  Carver  for  a  coward,  that 
most  dangerous  animal  to  meet  in  his  own  lair. 

Now  here  stood  the  "gel,"  the  mysterious 
secret  goal  of  desire,  a  splendid  creature,  virginal, 
savage,  as  certainly  designed  for  man  as  Eve. 
The  men's  eyes  fastened  upon  her,  moved  and 
dropped. 

"Your  father  sent  you  down  here  fer  a  job?" 
asked  Mrs.  Upper  incredulously. 

"No.  I  come."  Joan's  grave  gaze  was  unchang- 
ing. "I  'm  tired  of  it  up  there.  I  ain't  a-goin'  back. 
I'm  most  eighteen  now  an'  I  kinder  want  a 
change." 

She  had  not  meant  to  be  funny,  but  a  gust  of 
laughter  rattled  the  room.  She  shrank  back.  It 
was  more  terrifying  to  her  than  any  cruelty  she 
had  fancied  meeting  her  in  the  town.  These  were 


Joan  Reads  by  Firelight  ll 

the  men  her  father  had  forbidden,  these  loud- 
laughing,  crinkled  faces.  She  had  turned  to  brave 
them,  a  great  surge  of  color  in  her  brows. 

"Don't  mind  the  boys,  dear,"  spoke  Mrs. 
Upper.  "They  will  laff,  joke  or  none.  We  ain't 
none  of  us  blamin'  you.  It's  a  wonder  you  ain't 
run  off  long  afore  now.  I  can  give  you  a  job  an' 
welcome,  but  you  '11  be  green  an'  unhandy.  Well, 
sir,  we  kin  learn  ye.  You  kin  turn  yer  hand  to 
chamber-work  an'  mebbe  help  at  the  table. 
Maud  will  show  you.  But,  Joan,  what  will  dad 
do  to  you?  He'll  be  takin'  after  you  hot-foot,  I 
reckon,  an'  be  fer  gettin'  you  back  home  as  soon 
as  he  can." 

Joan  did  not  change  her  look. 

"I'll  not  be  goin'  back  with  him,"  she  said. 

Her  slow,  deep  voice,  chest  notes  of  a  musical 
vibration,  stirred  the  room.  The  men  were  hers 
and  gruffly  said  so.  A  sudden  warmth  enveloped 
her  from  heart  to  foot.  She  followed  Mrs.  Upper 
to  the  initiation  in  her  service,  clothed  for  the 
first  time  in  human  sympathies. 


CHAPTER  H 
PIERRE  LAYS  HIS  HAND  ON  A  HEART 

MAUD  UPPER  was  the  first  girl  of  her  own 
age  that  Joan  had  ever  seen.  Joan  went  in 
terror  of  her  and  Maud  knew  this  and  enjoyed 
her  ascendancy  over  an  untamed  creature  twice 
her  size.  There  was  the  crack  of  a  lion-tamer's 
whip  in  the  tone  of  her  instructions.  That  was 
after  a  day  or  two.  At  first  Maud  had  been  hor- 
ribly afraid  of  Joan.  "A  wild  thing  like  her,  livin* 
off  there  in  the  hills  with  that  man,  why,  ma, 
there's  no  tellin'  what  she  might  be  doin'  to  me." 
"She  won't  hurt  ye,"  laughed  Mrs.  Upper, 
who  had  lived  in  the  wilds  herself,  having  been 
a  frontierman's  wife  before  the  days  even  of  this 
frontier  town  and  having  married  the  hotel- 
keeper  as  a  second  venture.  She  knew  that  civili- 
zation —  this  rude  place  being  civilization  to 
Joan  —  would  cow  the  girl  and  she  knew  that 
Maud's  self-assertive  buoyancy  would  frighten 
the  soul  of  her.  Maud  was  large-hipped,  high- 
bosomed,  with  a  small,  round  waist  much  com- 
pressed. She  carried  her  head,  with  its  waved 
brown  hair,  very  high,  and  shot  blue  glances 


Pierre  Lays  his  Hand  on  a  Heart     13 

down  along  a  short,  broad  nose.  Her  mouth  was 
thin  and  determined,  her  color  high.  She  had  a 
curiously  shallow,  weak  voice  that  sounded 
breathless.  She  taught  Joan  impatiently  and 
laughed  loudly  but  not  unkindly  at  her  ways. 

"Gee,  she's  awkward,  ain't  she?"  she  would 
say  to  the  men;  "trail  like  a  bull  moose!" 

The  men  grinned,  but  their  eyes  followed 
Joan's  movements.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was 
not  awkward.  Through  her  clumsy  clothes,  the 
heaviness  of  her  early  youth,  in  spite  of  all  the 
fetters  of  her  ignorance,  her  wonderful  long  bones 
and  her  wonderful  strength  asserted  themselves. 
And  she  never  hurried.  At  first  this  apparent 
sluggishness  infuriated  Maud.  "Get  a  gait  on  ye, 
Joan  Carver!"  she  would  scream  above  the  din 
of  the  rough  meals,  but  soon  she  found  that 
Joan's  slow  movements  accomplished  a  tremen- 
dous amount  of  work  in  an  amazingly  short  time. 
There  was  no  pause  in  the  girl's  activity.  She 
poured  out  her  strength  as  a  python  pours  his, 
noiselessly,  evenly,  steadily,  no  haste,  no  waste. 
And  the  men's  eyes  brooded  upon  her. 

If  Joan  had  stayed  long  at  Mrs.  Upper's,  she 
would  have  begun  inevitably  to  model  herself  on 
Maud,  who  was,  in  her  eyes,  a  marvelous  thing 
of  beauty.  But,  just  a  week  after  her  arrival, 


14  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

there  came  to  the  inn  Pierre  Landis  and  for  Joan 
began  the  strange  and  terrible  history  of  love. 

In  the  lives  of  most  women,  of  the  vast  major- 
ity, the  clatter  and  clash  of  housewifery  prelude 
and  postlude  the  spring  song  of  their  years.  And 
the  rattle  of  dishes,  of  busy  knives  and  forks,  the 
quick  tapping  of  Maud's  attendant  feet,  the 
sound  of  young  and  ravenous  jaws  at  work:  these 
sounds  were  in  Joan's  bewildered  ears,  and  the 
sights  which  the'y  accompanied  in  her  bewildered 
eyes,  just  before  she  heard  Pierre's  voice,  just 
before  she  saw  his  face. 

It  was  dinner  hour  at  the  hotel,  an  hour  most 
dreadful  to  Joan  because  of  the  hurry,  the 
strangeness,  and  the  crowd,  because  of  the  re- 
sponsibility of  her  work,  but  chiefly  because  at 
that  hour  she  expected  the  appearance  of  her 
father.  Her  eyes  were  often  on  the  door.  It  opened 
to  admit  the  young  men,  the  riders  and  ranchers 
who  hung  up  their  hats,  swaggered  with  a  little 
jingle  of  spurs  to  their  chairs;  clean-faced,  clean- 
handed, wet-haired,  murmuring  low- voiced  cour- 
tesies,—  "Pass  me  the  gravy,  please,"  "I 
would  n't  be  carin'  fer  any,  thank  you,"  —  and 
lifting  to  the  faces  of  waiting  girls  now  and  again 
their  strange,  young,  brooding  eyes,  bold,  laugh- 
ing, and  afraid,  hungry,  pathetic,  arrogant,  as 


Pierre  Lays  his  Hand  on  a  Heart    15 

the  eyes  of  young  men  are,  tameless  and  untam- 
able, but  full  of  the  pathos  of  the  untamed. 
Joan's  heart  shook  a  little  under  their  looks,  but 
when  Pierre  lifted  his  eyes  to  her,  her  heart  stood 
still.  She  had  not  seen  them  following  her  prog- 
ress around  the  room.  He  had  come  in  late,  and 
finding  no  place  at  the  long,  central  table  sat 
apart  at  a  smaller  one  under  a  high,  uncurtained 
window.  By  the  time  she  met  his  eyes  they  were 
charged  with  light;  smoky-blue  eyes  they  were, 
the  iris  heavily  ringed  with  black,  the  pupils 
dilated  a  little.  For  the  first  time  it  occurred  to 
Joan,  looking  down  with  a  still  heart  into  his 
eyes,  that  a  man  might  be  beautiful.  The  blood 
came  up  from  her  heart  to  her  face.  Her  eyes 
struggled  away  from  his. 

"What's  yer  name,  gel?"  murmured  Pierre. 

"  Joan  Carver." 

"You  run  away  from  home?"  He  too  had 
heard  of  her. 

"Yes." 

"Will  your  father  be  takin'  you  back?" 

"I  won't  be  goin'  with  him." 

She  was  about  to  pass  on.  Pierre  cast  a  swift 
look  about  the  table  —  bent  heads  and  busy 
hands,  eyes  cast  down,  ears,  he  knew,  alert.  It 
was  a  land  of  few  women  and  of  many  men. 


16  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

He  must  leave  in  the  morning  early  and  for 
months  he  would  not  be  back.  He  put  out  a  long, 
hard  hand,  caught  Joan's  wrist  and  gave  it  a 
queer,  urgent  shake,  the  gesture  of  an  impatient 
and  beseeching  child. 

"Will  you  be  comin'  home  with  me,  gel?" 
asked  Pierre  hurriedly. 

She  looked  at  him,  her  lips  apart,  and  she 
shook  her  head. 

Maud's  voice  screamed  at  her  from  the  kitchen 
door.  Pierre  let  her  go.  She  went  on,  very  white. 

She  did  not  sleep  at  all  that  night.  Her  father's 
face,  Pierre's  face,  looked  at  her.  In  the  morning 
Pierre  would  be  gone.  She  had  heard  Maud  say 
that  the  "queer  Landis  feller  would  be  makin' 
tracks  back  to  that  ranch  of  his  acrost  the  river." 
Yes,  he  would  be  gone.  She  might  have  been  going 
with  him.  She  felt  the  urgent  pressure  of  his  hand 
on  her  arm,  in  her  heart.  It  shook  her  with  such 
a  longing  for  love,  for  all  the  unknown  largesse 
of  love,  that  she  cried.  The  next  morning,  pale, 
she  came  down  and  went  about  her  work.  Pierre 
was  not  at  breakfast,  and  she  felt  a  sinking  of 
heart,  though  she  had  not  known  that  she  had 
built  upon  seeing  him  again.  Then,  as  she  stepped 
out  at  the  back  to  empty  a  bucket,  there  he 
was! 


Pierre  Lays  his  Hand  on  a  Heart    17 

Not  even  the  beauty  of  dawn  could  lend  mys- 
tery to  the  hideous,  littered  yard,  untidy  as  the 
yards  of  frontier  towns  invariably  are,  to  the 
board  fence,  to  the  trampled  half-acre  of  dirt, 
known  as  "The  Square,"  and  to  the  ugly  frame 
buildings  straggled  about  it;  but  it  could  and  did 
give  an  unearthly  look  of  blessedness  to  the  bare, 
gray-brown  buttes  that  ringed  the  town  and  a 
glory  to  the  sky,  while  upon  Pierre,  waiting  at 
his  pony's  head,  it  shed  a  magical  and  tender 
light.  He  was  dressed  in  his  cowboy's  best,  a 
white  silk  handkerchief  knotted  under  his  chin, 
leather  "chaps,"  bright  spurs,  a  sombrero  on  his 
head.  His  face  was  grave,  excited,  wistful.  At 
sight  of  Joan,  he  moved  forward,  the  pony  trail- 
ing after  him  at  the  full  length  of  its  reins;  and, 
stopping  before  her,  Pierre  took  off  the  sombrero, 
slowly  stripped  the  gauntlet  from  his  right  hand, 
and,  pressing  both  hat  and  glove  against  his  hip 
with  the  left  hand,  held  out  the  free,  clean  palm 
to  Joan. 

"Good-bye,"  said  he,  "unless  —  you'll  be 
comin'  with  me  after  all?" 

Joan  felt  again  that  rush  of  fire  to  her  brows. 
She  took  his  hand  and  her  fingers  closed  around 
it  like  the  frightened,  lonely  fingers  of  a  little  girl. 
She  came  near  to  him  and  looked  up. 


18  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

"I'll  be  comin'  with  you,  Pierre,"  she  said, 
just  above  her  breath. 

He  shot  up  a  full  inch,  stiffened,  searched  her 
with  smouldering  eyes,  then  held  her  hard  against 
him.  "You'll  not  be  sorry,  Joan  Carver,"  said 
he  gently  and  put  her  away  from  him.  Then,  un- 
smiling, he  bade  her  go  in  and  get  her  belongings 
while  he  got  her  a  horse  and  told  his  news  to 
Mrs.  Upper. 

That  ride  was  dreamlike  to  Joan.  Pierre  put 
her  in  her  saddle  and  she  rode  after  him  across 
the  Square  and  along  a  road  flanked  by  the  ugly 
houses  of  the  town. 

"Where  are  we  a-goin'?"  she  asked  him  tim- 
idly. 

He  stopped  at  that,  turned,  and,  resting  his 
hand  on  the  cantle  of  his  saddle,  smiled  at  her 
for  the  first  time. 

"Don't  you  savvy  the  answer  to  that  question, 
Joan?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

The  smile  faded.  "We're  goin'  to  be  married," 
said  he  sternly,  and  they  rode  on. 

They  were  married  by  the  justice,  a  pleasant, 
silent  fellow,  who  with  Western  courtesy,  asked 
no  more  questions  than  were  absolutely  needful, 
and  in  fifteen  minutes  Joan  mounted  her  horse 


Pierre  Lays  his  Hand  on  a  Heart    19 

again,  a  ring  on  the  third  finger  of  her  left 
hand. 

"Now,"  said  Pierre,  standing  at  her  stirrup, 
his  shining,  smoke-blue  eyes  lifted  to  her,  his 
hand  on  her  boot,  "you'll  be  wantin'  some  things 
-  some  clothes?" 

"No,"  said  Joan.  "Maud  went  with  me  an' 
helped  me  buy  things  with  my  pay  just  yester- 
day. I  won't  be  needin'  anything." 

"All  right,"  said  he.  "We're  off,  then!"  And 
he  flung  himself  with  a  sudden  wild,  boyish 
"Whoopee!"  on  his  pony,  gave  a  clip  to  Joan's 
horse  and  his  own,  and  away  they  galloped,  a 
pair  of  young,  wild  things,  out  from  the  town 
through  a  straggling  street  to  where  the  road 
boldly  stretched  itself  toward  a  great  land  of 
sagebrush,  of  buttes  humping  their  backs  against 
the  brilliant  sky.  Down  the  valley  they  rode, 
trotting,  walking,  galloping,  till,  turning  west- 
ward, they  mounted  a  sharp  slope  and  came 
up  above  the  plain.  Below,  in  the  heart  of  the 
long,  narrow  valley,  the  river  coiled  and  wan- 
dered, divided  and  came  together  again  into  a 
swift  stream,  amongst  aspen  islands  and  willow 
swamps.  Beyond  this  strange,  lonely  river-bed, 
the  cottonwoods  began,  and,  above  them,  the 
pine  forests  massed  themselves  and  strode  up  the 


20  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

foothills  of  the  gigantic  range,  that  range  of  iron 
rocks,  sharp,  thin,  and  brittle  where  they  scraped 
the  sky. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill,  Pierre  put  out  his  hand 
and  pulled  Joan's  rein,  drawing  her  to  a  stop 
beside  him. 

"Over  yonder 's  my  ranch,"  said  he. 

Joan  looked.  There  was  not  a  sign  of  house  or 
clearing,  but  she  followed  his  gesture  and  nodded. 

"Under  the  mountains?"  she  said. 

"At  the  foot  of  Thunder  Canon.  You  can  see  a 
gap  in  the  pines.  There's  a  waterfall  just  above 
—  that  white  streak.  Now  you  've  got  it.  Where 
you  come  from's  to  the  south,  away  yonder." 

Joan  would  not  turn  her  head.  "Yes,"  said  she, 
"I  know." 

Suddenly  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes.  She  had  a 
moment  of  unbearable  longing  and  regret.  Pierre 
said  nothing;  he  was  not  watching  her. 

"Come  on,"  said  he,  "or  your  father  will  be 
takin'  after  us." 

They  rode  at  a  gallop  down  the  hill. 


CHAPTER  HI 
TWO  PICTUKES  IN  THE  FIKE 

THE  period  which  followed  had  a  quality 
of  breathless,  almost  unearthly  happiness. 
They  were  young,  savage,  simple,  and  their  love, 
unanalyzed,  was  as  joyous  as  the  loves  of  ani- 
mals: joyous  with  that  clear  gravity  character- 
istic of  the  boy  and  girl.  Pierre  had  been  terribly 
alone  before  Joan  came,  and  the  building-up  of 
his  ranch  had  occupied  his  mind  day  and  night 
except,  now  and  again,  for  dreams.  Yet  he  was 
of  a  passionate  nature.  Joan  felt  in  him  some- 
times a  savage  possibility  of  violence.  Two  inci- 
dents of  this  time  blazed  themselves  especially 
on  her  memory:  the  one,  her  father's  visit,  the 
other,  an  irrelevant  enough  picture  until  after 
events  threw  back  a  glare  upon  it. 

They  had  been  at  Pierre's  ranch  for  a  fort- 
night before  John  Carver  found  them.  Then, 
one  morning,  as  Pierre  opened  the  door  to  go 
out  to  work,  Joan  saw  a  thin,  red  pony  tied  to 
the  fence  and  a  small  figure  walking  toward  the 
cabin. 

"Pierre,  it's  father!"  she  said.  And  Pierre 


22  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

stopped  in  his  tracks,  drew  himself  up  and  waited, 
hands  on  his  cartridge  belt. 

How  mean  and  old  and  furtive  her  father 
looked  in  contrast  to  this  beautiful  young  hus- 
band! Joan  was  entirely  unafraid.  She  leaned 
against  the  side  of  the  door  and  watched,  as 
silent  and  unconsulted  as  any  squaw,  while  the 
two  men  settled  their  property  rights  in  her. 

"So  you've  took  my  gel,"  said  John  Carver, 
stopping  a  foot  or  two  in  front  of  Pierre,  his  eyes 
shifting  up  and  down,  one  long  hand  fingering  his 
lips. 

Pierre  answered  courteously.  "Some  man  was 
bound  to  hev  her,  Mr.  Carver,  soon  or  late.  You 
can't  set  your  face  ag'in'  the  laws  of  natur'.  Will 
you  be  steppin*  in?  Joan  will  give  you  some 
breakfast." 

Carver  paid  no  heed  to  the  invitation.  "Hev 
you  married  her?"  said  he. 

The  blood  rose  to  Pierre's  brown  face.  "Sure  I 
hev." 

"Well,  sir,  you  hev  married  the  darter  of 

a "  Carver  used  a  brutal  word.  "Look  out 

fer  her.  If  you  see  her  eyes  lookin'  an'  lookin'  at 
another  man,  you  kin  know  what's  to  come." 
Pierre  was  white.  "I've  done  with  her.  She  kin 
never  come  to  me  fer  bite  or  bed.  Shoot  her 


Two  Pictures  in  the  Fire          23 

if  you  hev  to,  Pierre  Landis,  but  when  she's 
kotched  at  her  mother's  game,  don't  send  her 
back  to  me.  That's  all  I  come  to  say." 

He  turned  with  limber  agility  and  went  back 
to  his  horse.  He  was  on  it  and  off,  galloping 
madly  across  the  sagebrush  flat.  Pierre  turned 
and  walked  into  the  house  past  Joan  without  a 
word. 

She  still  leaned  against  the  door,  but  her  head 
was  bent. 

Presently  she  went  about  her  housework. 
Every  now  and  then  she  shot  a  wistful  look  at 
Pierre.  All  morning  long,  he  sat  there,  his  hands 
hanging  between  his  knees,  his  eyes  full  of  a 
brooding  trouble.  At  noon  he  shook  his  head, 
got  up,  and,  still  without  word  or  caress,  he 
strode  out  and  did  not  come  back  till  dark.  Joan 
suffered  heartache  and  terror.  When  he  came,  she 
ran  into  his  arms.  He  kissed  her,  seemed  quite 
himself  again,  and  the  strange  interview  was 
never  mentioned  by  either  of  them.  They  were 
silent  people,  given  to  feelings  and  to  action 
rather  than  to  thoughts  and  words. 

The  other  memory  was  of  a  certain  sunset  hour 
when  she  came  at  Pierre's  call  out  to  the  shed 
he  had  built  at  one  side  of  their  cabin.  Its  open 
side  faced  the  west,  and,  as  Joan  came,  her 


24  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

shadow  went  before  her  and  fell  across  Pierre  at 
work.  The  flame  of  the  west  gave  a  weird  pallor 
to  the  flames  over  which  he  bent.  He  was  whis- 
tling, and  hammering  at  a  long  piece  of  iron. 
Joan  came  and  stood  beside  him. 

Suddenly  he  straightened  up  and  held  in  the 
air  a  bar  of  metal,  the  shaped  end  white  hot. 
Joan  blinked. 

"That's  our  brand,  gel,"  said  Pierre.  "Don't 
you  f ergit  it.  When  I  've  made  my  fortune  there  '11 
be  stock  all  over  the  country  marked  with  them 
two  bars.  That  '11  be  famous  —  the  Two-Bar 
Brand.  Don't  you  fergit  it,  Joan." 

And  he  brought  the  white  iron  close  so  that 
she  felt  its  heat  on  her  face  and  drew  back, 
flinching.  He  laughed,  let  it  fall,  and  kissed  her. 
Joan  was  very  glad  and  proud. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  SIN-BUSTER 

IN  the  fall,  when  the  whole  country  had  turned 
to  a  great  cup  of  gold,  purple-rimmed  under 
the  sky,  Pierre  went  out  into  the  hills  after  his 
winter  meat.  Joan  was  left  alone.  She  spent  her 
tune  cleaning  and  arranging  the  two-room  cabin, 
and  tidying  up  outdoors,  and  in  "grubbing  sage- 
brush," a  gigantic  task,  for  the  one  hundred  and 
fifty  acres  of  Pierre's  homestead  were  covered 
for  the  most  part  by  the  sturdy,  spicy  growth, 
and  every  bush  had  to  be  dug  out  and  burnt  to 
clear  the  way  for  ploughing  and  planting.  Joan 
worked  with  the  deliberateness  and  intentness 
of  a  man.  She  enjoyed  the  wholesome  drudgery. 
She  was  proud  every  sundown  of  the  little  clear- 
ing she  had  made,  and  stood,  tired  and  content, 
to  watch  the  piled  brush  burn,  sending  up  aro- 
matic smoke  and  curious,  dull  flames  very  high 
into  the  still  air. 

She  was  so  standing,  hands  folded  on  her  rake, 
when,  on  the  other  side  of  her  conflagration,  she 
perceived  a  man.  He  was  steadily  regarding  her, 
and  when  her  eyes  fell  upon  him,  he  smiled  and 


26  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

stepped  forward  —  a  tall,  broad,  very  fair  young 
man  in  a  shooting  coat,  khaki  riding-breeches, 
and  puttees.  He  had  a  wide  brow,  clear,  blue 
eyes  and  an  eager,  sensitive,  clean-shaven  mouth 
and  chin.  He  held  out  a  big  white  hand. 

"Mrs.  Landis,"  he  said,  in  a  crisp  voice  of  an 
accent  and  finish  strange  to  the  girl  "I  wonder  if 
you  and  your  husband  can  put  me  up  for  the 
night.  I'm  Frank  Holliwell.  I'm  on  a  round  of 
parish  visits,  and,  as  my  parish  is  about  sixty 
miles  square,  my  poor  old  pony  has  gone  lame. 
I  know  you  are  not  my  parishioners,  though,  no 
doubt,  you  should  be,  but  I  'm  going  to  lay  claim 
to  your  hospitality,  for  all  that,  if  I  may?" 

Joan  had  moved  her  rake  into  the  grasp  of  her 
left  hand  and  had  taken  the  proffered  palm  into 
her  other,  all  warm  and  fragrantly  stained. 

"You're  the  new  sin-buster,  ain't  you?"  she 
asked  gravely. 

The  young  man  opened  his  blue  and  friendly 
eyes. 

"Oh,  that's  what  I  am,  eh?  That's  a  new  one 
to  me.  Yes.  I  suppose  I  am.  It's  rather  a  fine 
name  to  go  by  —  sin-buster,"  and  he  laughed 
very  low  and  very  amusedly. 

Joan  looked  him  over  and  slowly  smiled.  "You 
look  like  you  could  bust  anything  you'd  a  mind 


The  Sin-Buster  87 

to,"  she  said,  and  led  the  way  toward  the  house, 
her  rake  across  her  shoulder. 

"Pierre,"  she  told  him  when  they  were  in  the 
shining,  clean  log  house,  "is  off  in  the  hills  after 
his  elk,  but  I  can  make  you  up  a  bed  in  the 
settin'-room  an*  serve  you  a  supper  an'  wel- 
come." 

"Oh,  thanks,"  he  rather  doubtfully  accepted. 

Evidently  he  did  not  know  the  ways  and  pro- 
prieties of  this  new  "parish"  of  his.  But  Joan 
seemed  to  take  the  situation  with  an  enormous 
calm  impersonality.  He  modeled  his  manner  upon 
hers.  They  sat  at  the  table  together,  Joan  silent, 
save  when  he  forced  her  to  speak,  and  entirely 
untroubled  by  her  silence,  Frank  Holliwell  eating 
heartily,  helping  her  serve,  and  talking  a  great 
deal.  He  asked  her  a  great  many  questions,  which 
she  answered  with  direct  simplicity.  By  the  end 
of  dish-washing,  he  had  her  history  and  more  of 
her  opinions,  probably,  than  any  other  creature 
she  had  met. 

"What  do  you  do  when  Landis  is  away?" 

She  told  him. 

"But,  in  the  evenings,  I  mean,  after  work. 
Have  you  books?" 

"No,"  said  Joan;  "it's  right  hard  labor, 
readin'.  Pa  learned  me  my  letters  an'  I  can  spell 


28  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

out  bits  from  papers  an'  advertisements  an'  what 
not,  but  I  ain't  never  read  a  book  straight  out. 
I  dunno,"  she  added  presently,  "but  as  I'd  like 
to.  Pierre  can  read,"  she  told  him  proudly. 

"I'm  sure  you'd  like  to."  He  considered  her 
through  the  smoke  of  his  pipe.  He  was  sitting  by 
the  hearth  now,  and  she,  just  through  with  clear- 
ing up,  stood  by  the  corner  of  the  mantel  shelf, 
arranging  the  logs.  The  firelight  danced  over  her 
face,  so  beautiful,  so  unlighted  from  within. 

"How  old  are  you,  Joan  Landis?"  he  asked 
suddenly,  using  her  name  without  title  for  the 
first  tune. 

"Eighteen." 

"Is  that  all?  You  must  read  books,  you  know. 
There 's  so  much  empty  space  there  back  of  your 
brows." 

She  looked  up  smiling  a  little,  her  wide  gray 
eyes  puzzled. 

"Yes,  Joan.  You  must  read.  Will  you  —  if  I 
lend  you  some  books?" 

She  considered.  "Yes,"  she  said.  "I'd  read 
them  if  you  'd  be  lendin'  me  some.  In  the  evenings 
when  Pierre's  away,  I  'm  right  lonesome.  I  never 
was  lonesome  before,  not  to  know  it.  It'll  take 
me  a  long  tune  to  read  one  book,  though,"  she 
added  with  an  engaging  mournfulness. 


The  Sin-Buster  29 

"  What  do  you  like  —  stories,  poetry,  maga- 
zines?" 

"I'd  like  real  books  in  stiff  covers,"  said  Joan, 
"an'  I  don't  like  pictures." 

This  surprised  the  clergyman.  "Why  not?" 
said  he. 

"I  like  to  notion  how  the* folks  look  myself. 
I  like  pictures  of  real  places,  that  has  got  to  be 
like  they  are"  -Joan  was  talking  a  great  deal 
and  having  trouble  with  her  few  simple  words  — 
"but  I  like  folks  in  stories  to  look  like  I  want  'em 
to  look." 

"Not  the  way  the  writer  describes  them?" 

"Yes,  sir.  But  you  can  make  up  a  whole  lot  on 
what  the  writer  describes.  If  he  says  'her  eyes  is 
blue ' ;  you  can  see  'em  dark  blue  or  light  blue  or 
jest  blue.  An'  you  can  see  'em  shaped  round  or 
what  not,  the  way  you  think  about  folks  that 
you've  heard  of  an'  have  never  met." 

It  was  extraordinary  how  this  effort  at  self- 
expression  excited  Joan.  She  was  rarely  self- 
conscious,  but  she  was  usually  passive  or  stolid; 
now  there  was  a  brilliant  flush  in  her  face  and  her 
large  eyes  deepened  and  glowed.  "I  heerd  tell  of 
you,  Mr.  Holliwell.  Fellers  come  up  here  to  see 
Pierre  onct  in  a  while  an'  one  or  two  of  'em  spoke 
your  name.  An'  I  kinder  figured  out  you  was  a 


30  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

weedy  feller,  awful  solemn-like,  an'  of  course 
you  ain't,  but  it's  real  hard  for  me  to  notion  that 
there  ain't  two  Mr.  Holliwells,  you  an'  the  weedy 
sin-buster  I've  ben  picturin'.  Like  as  not  I'll  get 
to  thinkin'  of  you  like  two  fellers."  Joan  sighed. 
"Seems  like  when  I  onct  get  a  notion  in  my  head 
it  jest  sticks  there  some  way." 

"Then  the  more  wise  notions  you  get  the 
better.  I  '11  ride  up  here  in  a  couple  of  weeks'  time 
with  some  books.  You  may  keep  them  as  long  as 
you  will.  All  winter,  if  you  like.  When  I  can  get 
up  here,  we  can  talk  them  over,  you  and  Landis 
and  I.  I'll  try  to  choose  some  without  pictures. 
There  will  be  stories  and  some  poetry,  too." 

"I  ain't  never  read  but  one  pome,"  said  Joan. 

"And  that  was?" 

She  had  sat  down  on  the  floor  by  the  hearth,  her 
head  thrown  back  to  lean  against  the  cobbles  of 
the  chimney-piece,  her  knees  locked  in  her  hands. 
That  magnificent  long  throat  of  hers  ran  up  to 
the  black  coils  of  hair  which  had  slipped  heavily 
down  over  her  ears.  The  light  edged  her  round 
chin  and  her  strongly  modeled,  regular  features; 
the  full,  firm  mouth  so  savagely  pure  and  sensu- 
ous and  self-contained.  The  eyes  were  mysterious 
under  their  thick  lashes  and  'dark,  long  brows. 
This  throat  and  face  and  these  strong  hands  were 


The  Sin-Buster  31 

picked  out  in  their  full  value  of  line  and  texture 
from  the  dark  cotton  dress  she  was  wearing. 

"It's  a  pome  on  a  card  what  father  had,  stuck 
ag'in'  the  wall."  She  began  to  recite,  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  him  with  childlike  gravity.  '"He  maketh 
me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures :  He  leadeth  me 
beside  the  still  waters.  .  .  .  Yea,  though  I  walk 
through  the  valley  of  shadows,  thou  art  with  me, 
thy  rod  and  thy  staff  they  comfort  me." 

Holliwell  had  taken  the  pipe  from  between  his 
teeth,  had  straightened  up.  Her  deep  voice,  the 
slight  swinging  of  her  body  to  the  rhythm  she 
had  unconsciously  given  to  her  lines,  the  strange 
glow  in  her  eyes  .  .  .  Holliwell  wondered  why 
these  things,  this  brief,  sing-song  recitation,  had 
given  a  light  thrill  to  the  surface  of  his  skin,  had 
sent  a  tingling  to  his  finger-tips.  He  was  the  first 
person  to  wonder  at  that  effect  of  Joan's  cadenced 
music.  "The  valley  of  the  shadow  — "  she  had 
missed  a  familiar  phrase  and  added  value  to  a 
too  often  repeated  line. 

"Joan!  Joan!"  said  the  "sin-buster,"  an  ex- 
clamation drawn  from  him  on  a  deep  breath, 
"what  an  extraordinary  girl  you  are!  What  a 
marvelous  woman  you  are  going  to  be!" 

Joan  looked  at  him  in  a  silence  of  pure  aston- 
ishment and  that  was  the  end  of  their  real  talk. 


CHAPTER  V 
PIERRE  BECOMES  ALARMED  ABOUT  HIS  PROPERTY 

riiHE  next  time  Holliwell  came,  he  brought 
A  the  books,  and,  finding  Pierre  at  home,  he 
sat  with  his  host  after  supper  and  talked  men's 
talk  of  the  country;  of  game,  of  ranching,  a  little 
gossip,  stories  of  travel,  humorous  experiences, 
and  Joan  sat  in  her  place,  the  books  in  her  lap, 
looking  and  listening. 

John  Carver  had  used  a  phrase,  "When  you 
see  her  eyes  lookin'  and  lookin*  at  another 
man  — "  and  this  phrase  had  stuck  in  Pierre's 
sensitive  and  jealous  memory.  What  Joan  felt 
for  Holliwell  was  a  sort  of  ignorant  and  respect- 
ful tenderness,  the  excitement  of  an  intelligent 
child  first  moved  to  a  knowledge  of  its  own  intel- 
ligence; the  gratitude  of  savage  loneliness  toward 
the  beautiful  feet  of  exploration.  A  consciousness 
of  her  clean  mind,  a  consciousness  of  her  young, 
untamed  spirit,  had  come  slowly  to  Me  in  her 
since  her  talk  with  Holliwell.  Joan  was  peculiarly 
a  woman  —  that  is,  the  passive  and  receptive 
being.  Pierre  had  laid  his  hand  on  her  heart  and 
she  had  followed  him;  now  this  young  parson 


Pierre  Becomes  Alarmed          33 

had  put  a  curious  finger  on  her  brain,  it  followed 
him.  Her  husband  saw  the  admiration,  the  grati- 
tude, the  tender  excitement  in  her  frank  eyes, 
and  the  poison  seed  sown  by  John  Carver's  hand 
shot  out  roots  and  tiny,  deadly  branches. 

But  Joan  and  Holliwell  were  unaware.  Pierre 
smoked  rapidly,  rolling  cigarette  after  cigarette; 
he  listened  with  a  courteous  air,  he  told  stories 
in  his  soft,  slow  voice;  once  he  went  out  to  bring 
in  a  fresh  log  and,  coming  back  on  noiseless  feet, 
saw  Joan  and  her  instructor  bent  over  one  of  the 
books  and  Joan's  face  was  almost  that  of  a 
stranger,  so  eager,  so  flushed,  with  sparkles  in 
the  usually  still,  gray  eyes. 

It  was  not  till  a  week  or  two  after  this  second 
visit  from  the  clergyman  that  Pierre's  smoulder- 
ing jealousy  broke  into  flame.  After  clearing  away 
the  supper  things  with  an  absent  air  of  eager 
expectation,  Joan  would  dry  her  hands  on  her 
apron,  and,  taking  down  one  of  her  books  from 
their  place  in  a  shelf  corner,  she  would  draw  her 
chair  close  to  the  lamp  and  begin  to  read,  forget- 
ful of  Pierre.  These  had  been  the  happiest  hours 
for  him;  he  would  tell  Joan  about  his  day's  work, 
about  his  plans,  about  his  past  life;  wonderful  it 
was  to  him,  after  his  loneliness,  that  she  should 
be  sitting  there  drinking  in  every  word  and  lov- 


34  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

ing  him  with  her  dumb,  wild  eyes.  Now,  there 
was  no  talk  and  no  listening.  Joan's  absorbed 
face  was  turned  from  him  and  bent  over  her 
book,  her  lips  moved,  she  would  stop  and  stare 
before  her.  After  a  long  while,  he  would  get  up 
and  go  to  bed,  but  she  would  stay  with  her  books 
till  a  restless  movement  from  him  would  make 
her  aware  of  the  lamplight  shining  wakefulness 
upon  him  through  the  chinks  in  the  partition 
wall.  Then  she  would  get  up  reluctantly,  sighing, 
and  come  to  bed. 

For  ten  evenings  this  went  on,  Pierre's  heart 
slowly  heating  itself,  until,  all  at  once,  the  flame 
leaped. 

Joan  had  untied  her  apron  and  reached  up  for 
her  book.  Pierre  had  been  waiting,  hoping  that 
of  her  free  will  she  might  prefer  his  company  to 
the  "  parson  feller's  "  -  for  in  his  ignorance  those 
books  were  jealously  personified  —  but,  without 
a  glance  in  his  direction,  she  had  turned  as  usual 
to  the  shelf. 

"You  goin'  to  read?"  asked  Pierre  hoarsely. 
It  was  a  painful  effort  to  speak. 

She  turned  with  a  childish  look  of  astonish- 
ment. "Yes,  Pierre." 

He  stood  up  with  one  of  his  lithe,  swift  move- 
ments, all  in  one  rippling  piece.  "By  God,  you're 


Pierre  Becomes  Alarmed          35 

not,  though ! "  said  he,  strode  over  to  her,  snatched 
the  volume  from  her,  threw  it  back  into  its  place, 
and  pointed  her  to  her  chair. 

"You  set  down  an'  give  heed  to  me  fer  a 
change,  Joan  Carver,"  he  said,  his  smoke-colored 
eyes  smouldering.  "I  did  n't  fetch  you  up  here  to 
read  parsons'  books  an'  waste  oil.  I  fetched  you 
up  here  —  to  -  "  He  stopped,  choked  with  a  sud- 
den, enormous  hurt  tenderness  and  sat  down  and 
fell  to  smoking  and  staring,  hot-eyed,  into  the 
fire. 

And  Joan  sat  silent  in  her  place,  puzzled,  wist- 
ful, wounded,  her  idle  hands  folded,  looking  at 
him  for  a  while,  then  absently  before  her,  and 
he  knew  that  her  mind  was  busy  again  with  the 
preacher  feller's  books.  If  he  had  known  better 
how  to  explain  his  heart,  if  she  had  known  how 
to  show  him  the  impersonal  eagerness  of  her 
awakening  mind  — !  But,  savage  and  silent,  they 
sat  there,  loving  each  other,  hurt,  but  locked 
each  into  his  own  impenetrable  life. 

After  that,  Joan  changed  the  hours  of  her  study 
and  neglected  housework  and  sagebrush-grub- 
bing, but,  nonetheless,  were  Pierre's  evenings 
spoiled.  Perfection  of  intercourse  is  the  most 
perishable  of  all  life's  commodities.  Now,  when 
he  talked,  he  could  not  escape  the  consciousness 


36  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

of  having  constrained  his  audience;  she  could 
not  escape  her  knowledge  of  his  jealousy,  the 
remembrance  of  his  mysterious  outbreak,  the 
irrepressible  tug  of  the  story  she  was  reading.  So 
it  went  on  till  snow  came  and  they  were  shut  in, 
man  and  wife,  with  only  each  other  to  watch,  a 
tremendous  test  of  good-fellowship.  This  search- 
ing intimacy  came  at  a  bad  time,  just  after  Hol- 
li well's  third  visit  when  he  had  brought  a  fresh 
supply  of  books. 

"There's  poetry  this  time,"  he  said.  "Get 
Pierre  to  read  it  aloud  to  you." 

The  suggestion  was  met  by  a  rude  laugh  from 
Pierre. 

"I  would  n't  be  wastin'  my  time,"  he  jeered. 

It  was  the  first  rift  in  his  courtesy.  Holliwell 
looked  up  in  sharp  surprise.  He  saw  a  flash  of  the 
truth,  a  little  wriggle  of  the  green  serpent  in 
Pierre's  eyes  before  they  fell.  He  flushed  and 
glanced  at  Joan.  She  stood  by  the  table  in  the 
circle  of  lamplight,  looking  over  the  new  books, 
but  in  her  eagerness  there  was  less  simplicity. 
She  wore  an  almost  timorous  air,  accepted  his 
remarks  in  silence,  shot  doubtful  looks  at  Pierre 
before  she  answered  questions,  was  an  entirely 
different  Joan.  Now  Holliwell  was  angry  and  he 
stiffened  toward  his  host  and  hostess,  dropped 


Pierre  Becomes  Alarmed          37 

all  his  talk  about  the  books  and  smoked  haught- 
ily. He  was  young  and  over-sensitive,  no  more 
master  of  himself  in  this  instance  than  Pierre 
and  Joan.  But  before  he  left  after  supper,  refus- 
ing a  bed,  though  Pierre  conquered  his  dislike 
sufficiently  to  urge  it,  Holliwell  had  a  moment 
with  Joan.  It  was  very  touching.  He  would  tell 
about  it  afterwards,  but,  for  a  long  time,  he  could 
not  bear  to  remember  it. 

She  tried  to  return  his  books,  coming  with  her 
arms  full  of  them  and  lifting  up  eyes  that  were 
almost  tragic  with  renunciation. 

"I  can't  be  takin'  the  time  to  read  them,  Mr. 
Holliwell,"  she  said,  that  extraordinary,  over- 
expressive  voice  of  hers  running  an  octave  of 
regret;  "an*  someway  Pierre  don't  like  that  I 
should  spend  my  evenin's  on  them.  Seems  like 
he  thinks  I  was  settin'  myself  up  to  be  knowin' 
more  than  him."  She  laughed  ruefully.  "Me  — 
knowin'  more'n  Pierre!  It's  laughable.  But  any- 
ways I  don't  want  him  to  be  thinkin'  that.  So 
take  the  books,  please.  I  like  them."  She  paused. 
"I  love  them,"  she  said  hungrily  and,  blinking, 
thrust  them  into  his  hands. 

He  put  them  down  on  the  table.  "You're 
wrong,  Joan,"  he  said  quickly.  "You  mustn't 
give  in  to  such  a  foolish  idea.  You  have  rights  of 


38  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

your  own,  a  life  of  your  own.  Pierre  must  n't 
stand  in  the  way  of  your  learning.  You  must  n't 
let  him.  I  '11  speak  to  him." 

"Oh,  no!"  Some  intuition  warned  her  of  the 
danger  in  his  doing  this. 

"Well,  then,  keep  your  books  and  talk  to 
Pierre  about  them.  Try  to  persuade  him  to  read 
aloud  to  you.  I  shan't  be  back  now  till  spring, 
but  I  want  you  to  read  this  winter,  read  all  the 
stuff  that's  there.  Come,  Joan,  to  please  me," 
and  he  smiled  coaxingly. 

"I  ain't  af eared  of  Pierre,"  said  Joan  slowly. 
Her  pride  was  stung  by  the  suggestion.  "I  '11  keep 
the  books."  She  sighed.  "Good-bye.  When  I  see 
you  in  the  spring,  I  '11  be  a  right  learned  school- 
marm." 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  he  took  and  held  it, 
pressing  it  in  his  own.  He  felt  troubled  about  her, 
unwilling  to  leave  her  in  the  snowbound  wilder- 
ness with  that  young  savage  of  the  smouldering 
eyes. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Pierre  behind  him.  His  soft 
voice  had  a  click. 

Holliwell  turned  to  him.  "Good-bye,  Landis. 
I  shan't  see  either  of  you  till  the  spring.  I  wish 
you  a  good  winter  and  I  hope  —  "  He  broke  off 
and  held  out  his  hand.  "Well,"  said  he,  "you're 


Pierre  Becomes  Alarmed          39 

pretty  far  out  of  every  one's  way  here.  Be  good 
to  each  other." 

"Damn  your  interference!"  said  Pierre's  eyes, 
but  he  took  the  hand  and  even  escorted  Holliwell 
to  his  horse. 

Snow  came  early  and  deep  that  winter.  It  fell 
for  long,  gray  days  and  nights,  and  then  it  came 
in  hurricanes  of  drift,  wrapping  the  cabin  in 
swirling  white  till  only  one  window  peered  out 
and  one  gabled  corner  cocked  itself  above  the 
crust.  Pierre  had  cut  and  stacked  his  winter 
wood;  he  had  sent  his  cows  to  a  richer  man's 
ranch  for  winter  feeding.  There  was  very  little 
for  him  to  do.  After  he  had  brought  in  two  buck- 
ets of  water  from  the  well  and  had  cut,  for  the 
day's  consumption,  a  piece  of  meat  from  his  elk 
hanging  outside  against  the  wall,  he  had  only 
to  sit  and  smoke,  to  read  old  magazines  and 
papers,  and  to  watch  Joan.  Then  the  poisonous 
roots  of  his  jealousy  struck  deep.  Always  his 
brain,  unaccustomed  to  physical  idleness,  was  at 
work,  falsely  interpreting  her  wistful  silence  — 
she  was  thinking  of  the  parson,  hungry  to  read 
his  books,  longing  for  the  open  season  and  his 
coming  again  to  the  ranch. 

In  December  a  man  came  in  on  snowshoes 
bringing  "the  mail"  — one  letter  for  Pierre,  a 


40  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

communication  which  brought  heat  to  his  face. 
The  Forest  Service  threatened  him  with  a  loss  of 
land;  it  pointed  to  some  flaw  in  his  title;  part  of 
his  property,  the  most  valuable  part,  had  not 
yet  been  surveyed.  .  .  .  Pierre  looked  up  with 
set  jaws,  every  fighting  instinct  sharpened  to 
hold  what  was  his  own. 

"I  hev  put  in  two  years'  hard  work  on  them 
acres,"  he  told  his  visitor,  "an*  I'm  not  plannin' 
to  give  them  over  to  the  first  fool  favored  by  the 
Service.  My  title  is  as  clean  as  my  hand.  It'll 
take  more'n  thievery  an'  more'n  spite  to  take  it 
away  from  me." 

"You  better  go  to  Robinson,"  advised  the 
bearer  of  the  letter;  "can't  get  after  them  fellers 
too  soon.  It 's  a  country  where  you  can  easy  come 
by  what  you  want,  but  where  it  ain't  so  easy  to 
hold  on  to  it.  If  it  ain't  yer  land,  it 's  yer  bosses; 
if  it  ain't  yer  bosses,  it's  yer  wife."  He  looked  at 
Joan  and  laughed. 

Pierre  went  white  and  dumb;  the  chance  shot 
had  inflamed  his  wound. 

He  strapped  on  his  snowshoes  and  bade  a  grim 
good-bye  to  Joan,  after  the  man  had  left.  "Don't 
you  be  wastin'  oil  while  I'm  away,"  he  told  her 
sharply,  standing  in  the  doorway,  his  head  level 
with  the  steep  wall  of  snow  behind  him,  and  he 


Pierre  Becomes  Alarmed          41 

gave  her  a  threatening  look  so  that  the  tender- 
ness in  her  heart  was  frozen. 

After  he  had  gone,  "Pierre,  say  a  real  good- 
bye, say  good-bye,"  she  whispered.  Her  face 
cramped  and  tears  came. 

She  heard  his  steps  lightly  crunching  across 
the  hard,  bright  surface  of  the  snow,  they  entered 
into  the  terrible  frozen  silence.  Then  she  turned 
from  the  door,  dried  her  eyes  with  her  sleeve  like 
a  little  village  girl,  and  ran  across  the  room  to  a 
certain  shelf.  Pierre  would  be  gone  a  week.  She 
would  not  waste  oil,  but  she  would  read.  It  was 
with  the  appetite  of  a  starved  creature  that  she 
fell  upon  her  books. 


CHAPTER  VI 
PIERRE  TAKES  STEPS  TO  PRESERVE  HIS  PROPERTY 

A  LOG  fell  forward  and  Joan  lifted  her  head. 
She  had  not  come  to  an  end  of  Isabella's 
tragedy  nor  of  her  own  memories,  but  something 
other  than  the  falling  log  had  startled  her;  a  light, 
crunching  step  upon  the  snow. 

She  looked  toward  the  window.  For  an  instant 
the  room  was  almost  dark  and  the  white  night 
peered  in  at  her,  its  gigantic  snow-peaks  pressing 
against  the  long,  horizontal  window  panes,  and 
in  that  instant  she  saw  a  face.  The  fire  started  up 
again,  the  white  night  dropped  away,  the  face 
shone  close  a  moment  longer,  then  it  too  disap- 
peared. Joan  came  to  her  feet  with  pounding 
pulses.  It  had  been  Pierre's  face,  but  at  the  same 
time,  the  face  of  a  stranger.  He  had  come  back 
five  days  too  soon  and  something  terrible  had 
happened.  Surely  his  chancing  to  see  her  with 
her  book  would  not  make  him  look  like  that. 
Besides,  she  was  not  wasting  oil.  She  had  stood 
up,  but  at  first  she  was  incapable  of  moving  for- 
ward. For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  knew  the 
paralysis  of  unreasoning  fear.  Then  the  door 


Steps  to  Preserve  His  Property     43 

opened  and  Pierre  came  in  out  of  the  crystal 
night. 

"What  brought  you  back  so  soon?"  asked 
Joan. 

"Too  soon  fer  you,  eh?"  He  strode  over  to  the 
hearth  where  she  had  lain,  took  up  the  book, 
struck  it  with  his  hand  as  though  it  had  been  a 
hated  face,  and  flung  it  into  the  fire.  "I  seen  you 
through  the  window,"  he  said.  "So  you  been 
happy  readin'  while  I  been  away?" 

"I'll  get  you  supper.  I'll  light  the  lamp,"  Joan 
stammered. 

Pierre's  face  was  pale,  his  black  hair  lay  in  wet 
streaks  on  his  temples.  He  must  have  traveled 
at  furious  speed  through  the  bitter  cold  to  be  in 
such  a  sweat.  There  was  a  mysterious,  controlled 
disorder  in  his  look  and  there  arose  from  him  the 
odor  of  strong  drink.  But  he  was  steady  and  sure 
in  all  his  movements  and  his  eyes  were  deadly 
cool  and  reasonable  —  only  it  was  the  reason- 
ableness of  insanity,  reasonableness  based  on  the 
wildest  premises  of  unreason. 

"I  don't  want  no  supper,  nor  no  light,"  he 
said.  "Firelight's  enough  fer  you  to  read  parsons' 
books  by,  it 's  enough  fer  me  to  do  what  I  oughter 
done  long  afore  to-night." 

She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  small,  log- walled 


44  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

room,  arrested  in  the  act  of  lighting  a  match,  and 
stared  at  him  with  troubled  eyes.  She  was  no 
longer  afraid.  After  all,  strange  as  he  looked, 
more  strangely  as  he  talked,  he  was  her  Pierre, 
her  man.  The  confidence  of  her  heart  had  not 
been  seriously  shaken  by  his  coldness  and  his 
moods  during  this  winter.  There  had  been  times 
of  fierce,  possessive  tenderness.  She  was  his  own 
woman,  his  property;  at  this  low  counting  did 
she  rate  herself.  A  sane  man  does  no  injury  to  his 
own  possessions.  And  Pierre,  of  course,  was  sane. 
He  was  tired,  angry,  he  had  been  drinking  —  her 
ignorance,  her  inexperience  led  her  to  put  little 
emphasis  on  the  effects  of  the  poison  sold  at  the 
town  saloon.  When  he  was  warm  and  fed  and 
rested,  he  would  be  quite  himself  again.  She 
went  about  preparing  a  meal  in  spite  of  his 
words. 

He  did  not  seem  to  notice  this.  He  had  taken 
his  eyes  from  her  at  last  and  was  busy  with  the 
fire.  She,  too,  busy  and  reassured  by  the  familiar 
occupation,  ceased  to  watch  him.  Her  pulses 
were  quiet  now.  She  was  even  beginning  to  be 
glad  of  his  return.  Why  had  she  been  so  fright- 
ened? Of  course,  after  such  a  terrible  journey 
alone  in  the  bitter  cold,  he  would  look  strange. 
Her  father,  when  he  came  back  smelling  of  liquor, 


Steps  to  Preserve  His  Property     45 

had  always  been  more  than  usually  morose  and 
unlike  his  every-day  self.  He  would  sit  over  the 
stove  and  tell  her  the  story  of  his  crime.  They 
were  horrible  home-comings,  horrible  evenings, 
but  the  next  morning  they  would  seem  like 
dreams.  To-morrow  this  strangeness  of  Pierre's 
would  be  mistlike  and  unreal. 

"I  seen  your  sin-buster  in  town,"  said  Pierre. 
He  was  squatting  on  his  heels  over  the  fire  which 
he  had  built  up  to  a  great  blaze  and  glow  and  he 
spoke  in  a  queer  sing-song  tone  through  his  teeth. 
"He  asked  after  you  real  kind.  He  wanted  to 
know  how  you  was  gettin'  on  with  the  edication 
he 's  ben  handin'  out  to  you.  I  tell  him  that  you 
was  right  satisfied  with  me  an*  my  ways  an'  bed 
quit  his  books.  I  did  n't  know  as  you  was  hevin* 
such  a  good  time  durin'  my  absence." 

Joan  was  cruelly  hurt.  His  words  seemed  to 
fall  heavily  upon  her  heart.  "I  was  n't  hevin'  a 
good  time.  I  was  missin'  you,  Pierre,"  said  she 
in  a  low  tremolo  of  grieving  music.  "Them  books, 
they  seemed  like  they  was  all  the  company  I 
hed." 

"You  looked  like  you  was  missin'  me,"  he 
sneered.  "The  sin-buster  an'  I  had  words  about 
you,  Joan.  Yes'm,  he  give  me  quite  a  line  of 
preachin'  about  you,  Joan,  as  how  you  hed 


46  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

oughter  develop  yer  own  life  in  yer  own  way  — 
along  the  lines  laid  out  by  him.  I  told  him  as 
how  I  knowed  best  what  was  right  an'  fittin'  fer 
my  own  wife;  as  how,  with  a  mother  like  your'n 
you  needed  watchin'  more  'n  learnin' ;  as  how  you 
belonged  to  me  an'  not  to  him.  An',  says  he,  *  She 
don't  belong  to  any  man,  Pierre  Landis,'  he  said, 
*  neither  to  you  nor  to  me.  She  belongs  to  her 
own  self/  'I'll  see  that  she  belongs  to  me,'  I  said. 
'I'll  fix  her  so  she'll  know  it  an'  every  other 
feller  will.'" 

At  that  he  turned  from  the  fire  and  straight- 
ened to  his  feet. 

Joan  moved  backward  slowly  to  the  door.  He 
had  made  no  threatening  sign  or  movement,  but 
her  fear  had  come  overwhelmingly  upon  her  and 
every  instinct  urged  her  to  flight.  But  before  she 
touched  the  handle  of  the  door,  he  flung  himself 
with  deadly,  swift  force  and  silence  across  the 
room  and  took  her  in  his  arms.  With  all  her 
wonderful  young  strength,  Joan  could  not  break 
away  from  him.  He  dragged  her  back  to  the 
hearth,  tied  her  elbows  behind  her  with  the  scarf 
from  his  neck,  that  very  scarf  he  had  worn  when 
the  dawn  had  shed  a  wistful  beauty  upon  him, 
waiting  for  her  on  a  morning  not  so  very  long  ago. 
Joan  went  weak. 


Steps  to  Preserve  His  Property     47 

"Pierre,"  she  cried  pitifully,  "what  are  you 
a-goin'  to  do  to  me?" 

He  roped  her  to  the  heavy  -post  of  a  set  of 
shelves  built  against  the  wall.  Then  he  stood 
away,  breathing  fast. 

"Now  whose  gel  are  you,  Joan  Carver?"  he 
asked  her. 

"You  know  I'm  yours,  Pierre,"  she  sobbed. 
"You  got  no  need  to  tie  me  to  make  me  say  that." 

"I  got  to  tie  you  to  make  you  do  more'n  say 
it.  I  got  to  make  sure  you  are  it.  Hell-fire  won't 
take  the  sureness  out  of  me  after  this." 

She  turned  her  head,  all  that  she  could  turn. 

He  was  bending  over  the  fire,  and  when  he 
straightened  she  saw  that  he  held  something  in 
his  hand  ...  a  long  bar  of  metal,  white  at  the 
shaped  end.  At  once  her  memory  showed  her  a 
broad  glow  of  sunset  falling  over  Pierre  at  work. 
"There'll  be  stock  all  over  the  country  marked 
with  them  two  bars,"  he  had  said.  "The  Two-Bar 
Brand,  don't  you  fergit  it!"  She  was  not  likely 
to  forget  it  now. 

She  shut  her  eyes.  He  stepped  close  to  her  and 
jerked  her  blouse  down  from  her  shoulder.  She 
writhed  away  from  him,  silent  in  her  rage  and 
fear  and  fighting  dumbly.  She  made  no  appeal. 
At  that  moment  her  heart  was  so  full  of  hatred 


48  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

that  it  was  hardened  to  pride.  He  lifted  his  brand 
and  set  it  against  the  bare  flesh  of  her  shoulder. 

Then  terribly  she  screamed.  Again,  when  he 
took  the  metal  away,  she  screamed.  Afterwards 
there  was  a  dreadful  silence. 

Joan  had  not  lost  consciousness.  Her  healthy 
nerves  stanchly  received  the  anguish  and  the 
shock,  nor  did  she  make  any  further  outcry.  She 
pressed  her  forehead  against  the  sharp  edge  of 
the  shelf,  she  drove  her  nails  into  her  hands,  and 
at  intervals  she  writhed  from  head  to  foot.  Circles 
of  pain  spread  from  the  deep  burn  on  her  shoul- 
der, spread  and  shrank,  to  spread  and  shrink 
again.  The  bones  of  her  shoulder  and  arm  ached 
terribly;  fire  still  seemed  to  be  eating  into  her 
flesh.  The  air  was  full  of  the  smell  of  scorched 
skin  so  that  she  tasted  it  herself.  And  hotter  than 
her  hurt  her  heart  burned  consuming  its  own 
tenderness  and  love  and  trust. 

When  this  pain  left  her,  when  she  was  free  of 
her  bonds,  no  force  nor  fear  would  hold  her  to 
Pierre.  She  would  leave  him  as  she  had  left  her 
father.  She  would  go  away.  There  was  no  place 
for  her  to  go  to,  but  what  did  that  matter  so  long 
as  she  might  escape  from  this  horrible  place  and 
this  infernal  tormentor?  She  did  not  look  about  to 
see  the  actuality  of  Pierre's  silence.  She  thought 


Steps  to  Preserve  His  Property     49 

that  he  had  dropped  the  brand  and  was  sitting 
near  the  table  with  his  face  hidden.  How  long 
the  stillness  of  pain  and  fury  and  horror  lasted 
there  was  no  one  to  reckon.  It  was  most  star- 
tlingly  broken  by  a  voice.  "Who  screamed  for 
help?  "  it  said,  and  at  the  same  instant  a  draught 
of  icy  air  smote  Joan.  The  door  had  opened  with 
suddenness  and  violence.  With  difficulty  she 
mastered  her  pain  and  turned  her  head. 

Pierre  had  staggered  to  his  feet.  Opposite  him, 
framed  against  the  open  door  filled  with  the  wan 
whiteness  of  the  snow,  stood  a  spare,  tall  figure. 
The  man  wore  his  fur  collar  turned  up  about  his 
chin  and  ears,  his  fur  cap  pulled  down  about  his 
brow,  a  sharp  aquiline  nose  stood  out  above 
frozen  mustaches,  keen  and  brilliant  eyes  searched 
the  room.  He  carried  his  gun  across  his  arm  in 
readiness,  and  snuffed  the  air  like  a  suspicious 
hound.  Then  he  advanced  a  step  toward  Pierre. 

"What  devil's  work  have  you  been  at?"  said 
he,  his  voice  cutting  the  ear  in  its  sharpness  of 
astonished  rage,  and  his  hand  slid  down  along 
the  handle  of  his  gun. 

Pierre,  watching  him  like  a  lynx,  side-stepped, 
crouched,  whipped  out  his  gun,  and  fired.  At 
almost  the  same  second  the  other's  gun  went  off. 
Pierre  dropped. 


50  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

This  time  Joan's  nerves  gave  way  and  the  room, 
with  its  smell  of  scorched  flesh,  of  powder,  and 
of  frost,  went  out  from  her  horrified  senses.  For 
a  moment  the  stranger's  stern  face  and  brilliant 
eyes  made  the  approaching  center  of  a  great 
cloud  of  darkness,  then  it  too  went  out. 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  JUDGMENT  OF  GOD 

THE  man  who  had  entered  with  such  violence 
upon  so  violent  a  scene,  stood  waiting  till 
the  smoke  of  Pierre's  discharge  had  cleared  away, 
then,  still  holding  his  gun  in  readiness,  he  stepped 
across  the  room  and  bent  over  the  fallen  man. 

"IVe  killed  him!"  he  said,  just  above  his 
breath,  and  added  presently,  "That  was  the  judg- 
ment of  God."  He  looked  about,  taking  in  every 
detail  of  the  scene,  the  branding  iron  that  had 
burnt  its  mark  deep  into  the  boards  where  Pierre 
had  thrown  it  down,  the  glowing  fire  heaped  high 
and  blazing  dangerously  in  the  small  room,  the 
woman  bound  and  burnt,  the  white  night  outside 
the  uncurtained  window. 

Afterwards  he  went  over  to  the  woman,  who 
drooped  in  her  bonds  with  head  hanging  back- 
ward over  the  wounded  shoulder.  He  untied  the 
silk  scarf  and  the  rope  and  carried  her,  still  un- 
conscious, into  the  bedroom  where  he  laid  her 
on  the  bed  and  bathed  her  face  in  water.  Joan's 
crown  of  hair  had  fallen  about  her  neck  and 
temples.  Her  bared  throat  and  shoulder  had  the 


52  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

firm  smoothness  of  marble,  her  lifeless  face,  its 
pure,  full  lips  fallen  apart,  its  long  lids  closed, 
black-fringed  and  black-browed,  owing  little  of 
its  beauty  to  color  or  expression,  was  at  no  loss 
in  this  deathlike  composure  and  whiteness.  The 
man  dealt  gently  with  her  as  though  she  had 
been  a  child.  He  found  clean  rags  which  he  soaked 
in  oil  and  placed  over  her  burn,  then  he  drew  the 
coarse  clothing  about  her  and  resumed  his  bath- 
ing of  her  forehead. 

She  gave  a  moaning  sigh,  her  face  contracted 
woefully,  and  she  opened  her  eyes.  The  man 
looked  into  them  as  a  curious  child  might  look 
into  an  opened  door. 

"Did  you  see  what  happened?"  he  asked  her 
when  she  had  come  fully  to  herself. 

"Yes,"  Joan  whispered,  her  lips  shaking. 

"I've  killed  the  brute." 

Her  face  became  a  classic  mask  of  tragedy, 
the  drawn  brows,  horrified  eyes,  and  widened 
mouth. 

"Pierre?  Killed?"  Her  voice,  hardly  more  than 
a  whisper,  filled  the  house  with  its  agony. 

"Are  you  sorry?"  demanded  her  rescuer 
sternly.  "  Was  he  in  the  habit  of  tying  you  up  or 
was  this  —  branding  —  a  special  diversion?" 

Joan  turned  her  face  away,  writhed  from  head 


'DID  YOU  SEE  WHAT  HAPPENED  ?' 


The  Judgment  of  God  53 

to  foot,  put  up  her  two  hands  between  him  and 
her  agonizing  memories. 

The  man  rose  and  left  her,  going  softly  into 
the  next  room.  There  he  stood  in  a  tense  attitude 
of  thought,  sat  down  presently  with  his  long, 
narrow  jaw  in  his  hands  and  stared  fixedly  at 
Pierre.  He  was  evidently  trying  to  fight  down  the 
shock  of  the  spectacle,  grimly  telling  himself  to 
become  used  to  the  fact  that  here  lay  the  body 
of  a  man  that  he  had  killed.  In  a  short  time  he 
seemed  to  be  successful,  his  face  grew  calm.  He 
looked  away  from  Pierre  and  turned  his  mind  to 
the  woman. 

"She  can't  stay  here,"  he  said  presently,  in 
the  tone  of  a  man  who  has  fallen  into  the  habit 
of  talking  aloud  to  himself.  He  looked  about  in  a 
hesitant,  doubtful  fashion.  "God!"  he  said  ab- 
ruptly and  snapped  his  fingers  and  thumb.  He 
looked  angry.  Again  he  bent  over  Pierre,  exam- 
ined him  with  thoroughness  and  science,  his  face 
becoming  more  and  more  calm.  At  the  end  he 
rose  and  with  an  air  of  authority  he  went  in  again 
to  Joan.  She  lay  with  her  face  turned  to  the  wall. 

"It  is  impossible  for  you  to  stay  here,"  said 
he  in  a  voice  of  command.  "You  are  not  fit  to 
take  care  of  yourself,  and  I  can't  stay  and  take 
care  of  you.  You  must  come  with  me.  I  think  you 


54  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

can  manage  that.  Your  husband  —  if  he  is  your 
husband  —  is  dead.  It  may  or  may  not  be  a 
matter  for  sorrow  to  you,  but  I  should  say  that  it 
ought  not  to  be  anything  but  a  merciful  release. 
Women  are  queer  creatures,  though.  .  .  .  How- 
ever, whether  you  are  in  grief  or  in  rejoicing,  you 
can't  stay  here.  By  to-morrow  or  next  day  you  '11 
need  more  nursing  than  you  do  now.  I  don't  want 
to  take  you  to  a  neighbor,  even  if  there  was  one 
near  enough,  but  I  '11  take  you  with  me.  Will  you 
get  ready  now?" 

His  sure,  even,  commanding  voice  evidently 
had  a  hypnotizing  effect  upon  the  dazed  girl. 
Slowly,  wincing,  she  stood  up,  and  with  his  help 
gathered  together  some  of  her  belongings  which 
he  put  in  the  pack  he  carried  on  his  shoulders. 
She  wrapped  herself  in  her  warmest  outdoor 
clothing.  He  then  put  his  hand  upon  her  arm  and 
drew  her  toward  the  door  of  that  outer  room* 
She  followed  him  blindly  with  no  will  of  her  own> 
but,  as  he  stopped  to  strap  on  his  snowshoes,  her 
face  lightened  with  pain,  and  she  made  as  if  to 
run  to  Pierre's  body.  He  stood  before  her,  "Don't 
touch  him,"  said  he,  and,  turning  himself,  he 
glanced  back  at  Pierre.  In  that  glance  he  saw  one 
of  the  lean,  brown  hands  stir.  His  face  became 
suddenly  suffused,  even  his  eyes  grew  shot  with 


The  Judgment  of  God  55 

blood.  Standing  carefully  so  as  to  obstruct  her 
view,  he  caught  at  the  corner  of  an  elk  hide  and 
threw  it  over  Pierre.  Then  he  went  to  Joan,  who 
stared  at  him,  white  and  shaking.  He  put  his  arm 
around  her  and  drew  her  out,  shutting  the  door 
of  her  home  and  leaning  against  it. 

"You  can't  go  back,"  said  he  gently  and  rea- 
sonably. "The  man  tried  to  kill  you.  You  can't 
go  back.  Surely  you  meant  to  go  away." 

"Yes,"  said  Joan,  "yes.  I  did  mean  to  go  away. 
But  — but  it's  Pierre." 

He  bent  and  began  to  strap  on  her  snowshoes. 
There  was  a  fighting  brilliance  in  his  eyes  and  a 
strange  look  of  hurry  about  him  that  had  its 
effect  on  Joan.  "It's  Pierre  no  longer,"  said  he. 
"What  can  you  do  for  him?  What  can  he  do  for 
you?  Be  sensible,  child.  Come.  Don't  waste  time. 
There  will  be  snow  to-day." 

In  fact  it  was  to-day.  The  moon  had  set  and  a 
gray  dawn  possessed  the  world.  It  was  not  nearly 
so  cold  and  the  great  range  had  vanished  in  a 
bank  of  gray-black  clouds  moving  steadily  north- 
ward under  a  damp  wind.  Joan  looked  at  this  one 
living  creature  with  wide,  fever-brightened  eyes. 

"  Come,"  said  the  man  impatiently. 

Joan  bent  her  head  and  followed  him  across 
the  snow. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
DELIRIUM 

IT  is  not  the  people  that  have  led  still  and  un- 
eventful lives  who  are  best  prepared  for  emer- 
gencies. They  are  not  trained  to  face  crises,  to 
make  prompt  and  just  decisions.  Joan  had  made 
but  two  such  resolutions  in  her  life;  the  first 
when  she  had  followed  Pierre,  the  second  when 
she  had  kept  Holliwell's  books  in  defiance  of 
her  husband's  jealousy.  The  leaving  her  father 
had  been  the  result  of  long  and  painful  thought. 
Now,  in  a  few  hours,  events  had  crashed  about 
her  so  that  her  whole  life,  outer  and  inner,  had 
been  shattered.  Beyond  the  pain  and  fever  of  her 
wound  there  was  an  utter  confusion  of  her  facul- 
ties. Before  she  fainted  she  had,  indeed,  made 
a  distinct  resolve  to  leave  Pierre.  It  was  this 
purpose,  working  subconsciously  on  her  will,  as 
much  as  the  urgent  pressure  of  the  stranger,  that 
took  her  past  Pierre's  body  out  into  the  dawn 
and  sent  her  on  that  rash  journey  of  hers  in  the 
footsteps  of  an  unknown  man.  This  being  seemed 
to  her  then  hardly  human.  Mysteriously  he  had 
stepped  in  out  of  the  night,  mysteriously  he  had 


Delirium  57 

condemned  Pierre,  and  in  self-defense,  for  Joan 
had  seen  Pierre  draw  his  gun  and  fire,  he  had 
killed  her  husband.  Now,  just  as  mysteriously, 
as  inevitably  it  seemed  to  her,  he  took  command 
of  her  life.  She  was  a  passive,  shipwrecked  thing 
—  a  derelict.  She  had  little  thought  and  no  care 
for  her  life. 

As  the  silent  day  slowly  brightened  through 
its  glare  of  clouds,  she  plodded  on,  setting  her 
snowshoes  in  the  tracks  her  leader  made.  The 
pain  in  her  shoulder  steadily  increased,  more  and 
more  absorbed  her  consciousness.  She  saw  little 
but  the  lean,  resolute  figure  that  went  before  her, 
turning  back  now  and  then  with  a  look  and  a 
smile  that  were  a  compelling  mixture  of  encour- 
agement, pity,  and  command.  She  did  not  know 
that  they  were  traveling  north  and  west  toward 
the  wildest  and  most  desolate  country,  that  every 
time  she  set  down  her  foot  she  set  it  down  farther 
from  humanity.  She  began  soon  to  be  a  little 
light-headed  and  thought  that  she  was  following 
Pierre. 

At  noon  they  entered  the  woods,  and  her  guide 
came  beside  her  and  led  her  through  fallen  tim- 
ber and  past  pitfalls  of  soft  snow.  Suddenly, 
"I  can't  go  no  more,"  she  sobbed,  and  stopped, 
swaying.  At  that  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and 


58  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

carried  her  a  few  hundred  feet  till  they  entered 
a  cabin  under  the  shelter  of  firs. 

"It's  the  ranger-station,"  said  he;  "the  ranger 
told  me  that  I  could  make  use  of  it  on  my  way 
back.  We  can  pass  the  night  here." 

Joan  knew  that  he  had  carried  her  across  a 
strange  room  and  put  her  on  a  strange  bed.  He 
took  off  her  snowshoes,  and  she  lay  watching  him 
light  a  fire  in  the  cold,  clean  stove  and  cook  a 
meal  from  supplies  left  by  the  owner  of  the  house. 
She  was  trying  now  to  remember  who  he  was, 
what  had  happened,  and  why  she  was  in  such 
misery  and  pain.  Sometimes  she  knew  that  he 
was  her  father  and  that  she  was  at  home  in  that 
wretched  shack  up  Lone  River,  and  an  ineffable 
satisfaction  would  relax  her  cramped  mind;  some- 
tunes,  just  as  clearly,  she  knew  that  he  was 
Pierre  who  had  taken  her  away  to  some  strange 
place,  and,  in  this  certainty,  she  was  even  more 
content.  But  always  the  horrible  flame  on  her 
shoulder  burnt  her  again  to  the  confusion  of  half- 
consciousness.  He  was  n't  John  Carver,  he  was  n't 
Pierre.  Who,  in  God's  name,  was  he?  And  why 
was  she  here  alone  with  him?  She  could  not  frame 
a  question;  she  had  a  fear  that,  if  she  began  to 
speak,  she  would  scream  and  rave,  would  tell 
impossible,  secret,  sacred  things.  So  she  held 


Delirium  59 

herself  to  silence,  to  a  savage  watchfulness,  to 
a  battle  with  delirium. 

The  man  brought  her  a  cup  of  strong  coffee 
and  held  up  her  head  so  that  she  could  drink  it, 
but  it  nauseated  her  and  she  thrust  it  weakly 
away,  asking  for  cold  water.  After  she  had  drunk 
this,  her  mind  cleared  for  an  instant  and  she 
tried  to  stand  up. 

"I  must  go  back  to  Pierre  now,"  she  said, 
looking  about  with  wild  but  resolute  eyes. 

"Lie  still,"  said  the  stranger  gently.  "You're 
not  fit  to  stir.  Trust  me.  It's  all  right.  You're 
quite  safe.  Get  rested  and  well,  then  you  may  go 
wherever  you  like.  I  want  only  to  help  you." 

The  reassuring  tone,  the  promising  words 
coerced  her  and  she  dropped  back.  Presently,  in 
spite  of  pain,  she  slept. 

She  woke  and  slept  in  fever  for  many  hours, 
vaguely  aware,  at  times,  that  she  was  traveling. 
She  felt  the  motion  of  a  sled  under  her  and  knew 
that  she  was  lying  on  the  warm  hide  of  some 
freshly  killed  beast  and  that  a  blanket  and  a 
canvas  covering  protected  her  from  a  swirl  of 
snow.  Then  she  thought  she  heard  a  voice  bab- 
bling queerly  and  saw  a  face  quite  terribly  differ- 
ent from  other  human  faces.  The  covering  was 
taken  from  her,  snowflakes  touched  her  cheek, 


60  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

a  lantern  shone  in  her  eyes,  and  she  was  lifted 
and  carried  into  a  warm,  pleasant-smelling  place 
from  which  were  magically  and  completely  ban- 
ished all  sound  and  bitterness  of  storm.  She  tried 
to  see  where  she  was,  but  her  eyes  looked  on  in- 
credible colors  and  confusions,  so  she  shut  them 
and  passively  allowed  herself  to  be  handled  by 
deft  hands.  She  knew  only  that  delicious  coolness, 
cleanliness,  and  softness  were  given  to  her  body, 
that  the  pain  in  her  shoulder  was  soothed,  that 
dreamlessly  she  slept. 


CHAPTER  IX 
DRIED  ROSE-LEAVES 

THE  house  that  Prosper  Gael  had  built  for 
himself  and  for  the  woman  whom  Joan  came 
to  think  of  as  the  "tall  child,"  stood  in  a  canon,  a 
deep,  secret  fold  of  the  hills,  where  a  cliff  stood 
behind  it,  and  where  the  pine-needled  ground 
descended  before  its  door,  under  the  far-flung, 
greenish-brown  shade  of  fir  boughs,  to  the  lip  of 
a  green  lake.  Here  the  highest  snow-peak  toppled 
giddily  down  and  reared  giddily  up  from  the 
crystal  green  to  the  ether  blue,  firs  massed  into 
the  center  of  the  double  image.  In  January,  the 
lake  was  a  glare  of  snow,  in  which  the  big  firs 
stood  deep,  their  branches  heavily  weighted. 
Prosper  had  dug  a  tunnel  from  his  door  through 
a  big  drift  which  touched  his  eaves.  It  was  curi- 
ous to  see  Wen  Ho  come  pattering  out  of  this 
Northern  cave,  his  yellow,  Oriental  face  and  slant 
eyes  peering  past  the  stalactite  icicles  as  though 
they  felt  their  own  incongruity  almost  with  a  sort 
of  terror.  The  interior  of  the  five-room  house 
gave  just  such  an  effect  of  bizarre  and  extrava- 
gant contrast;  an  effect,  too,  of  luxury,  though  in 


62  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

truth  it  was  furnished  for  the  most  part  with 
stuffs  and  objects  picked  up  at  no  very  great 
expense  in  San  Francisco  shops.  Nevertheless, 
there  was  nothing  tawdry  and,  here  and  there, 
something  really  precious.  Draperies  on  the 
walls,  furniture  made  by  Wen  Ho  and  Prosper, 
lacquered  in  black  and  red,  brass  and  copper, 
bright  pewter,  gay  china,  some  fur  rugs,  a  gor- 
geous Oriental  lamp,  bookcases  with  volumes  of 
a  sober  richness,  in  fact  the  costliest  and  most 
laborious  of  imports  to  this  wilderness,  small- 
paned,  horizontal  windows  curtained  in  some 
heavy  green-gold  stuff  which  slipped  along  the 
black  lacquered  pole  on  rings  of  jade;  all  these 
and  a  hundred  other  points  of  softly  brilliant 
color  gave  to  the  living-room  a  rare  and  striking 
look,  while  the  bedrooms  were  matted,  daintily 
furnished,  carefully  appointed  as  for  a  bride. 
Much  thought  and  trouble,  much  detailed  labor, 
had  gone  to  the  making  of  this  odd  nest  in  a 
Wyoming  canon.  Whatever  one  must  think  of 
Prosper  Gael,  it  is  difficult  to  shirk  heartache  on 
his  account.  A  man  of  his  temperament  does  not 
lightly  undertake  even  a  companioned  isolation 
in  a  winter  land.  To  picture  what  place  of  tor- 
ment this  well-appointed  cabin  was  to  him  before 
he  brought  to  it  Joan,  as  a  lonely  man  brings  in 


Dried  Rose-Leaves  63 

a  wounded  bird  to  nurse  and  cherish,  stretches 
the  fancy  on  a  rack  of  varied  painfulness. 

On  that  night,  snow  was  pouring  itself  down 
the  narrow  canon  in  a  crowded  whirl  of  dry,  clean 
flakes.  Wen  Ho,  watchful,  for  his  master  was  al- 
ready a  day  or  so  beyond  the  promised  date  of 
his  return,  had  started  a  fire  on  the  hearth  and 
spread  a  single  cover  on  the  table.  He  had  drawn 
the  green-and-gold  curtains  as  though  there  had 
been  anything  but  whirling  whiteness  to  look  in 
and  stood  warming  himself  with  a  rubbing  of 
thin,  dry  hands  before  the  open  blaze.  The  real 
heat  of  the  house,  and  it  was  almost  unbearably 
hot,  came  from  the  stoves  in  kitchen  and  bed- 
rooms, but  this  fire  gave  its  quota  of  warmth  and 
more  than  its  quota  of  that  beauty  so  necessary 
to  Prosper  Gael. 

Wen  Ho  put  his  head  from  one  side  to  the  other 
and  stopped  rubbing  his  hands.  He  had  heard 
the  packing  of  snow  under  webs  and  runners. 
After  listening  a  moment,  he  nodded  to  himself, 
like  a  figure  in  a  pantomime,  ran  into  the  kitchen, 
did  something  to  the  stove,  then  lighted  a  lantern 
and  pattered  out  along  the  tunnel  dodging  the 
icicle  stalactites.  Between  the  firs  he  stopped  and 
held  his  lantern  high  so  that  it  touched  a  mov- 
ing radius  of  flakes  to  silver  stars.  Back  of  him 


64  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

through  the  open  door  streamed  the  glow  of 
lamp  and  fire  filling  the  icicles  with  blood  and 
flushing  the  walls  and  the  roof  of  the  cave. 

Down  the  canon  Prosper  shouted,  "Wen  Ho! 
Wen  Ho!" 

The  Chinaman  plunged  down  the  trail,  packed 
below  the  new-fallen  snow  by  frequent  passage, 
and  presently  met  the  bent  figure  of  his  master 
pulling  and  breathing  hard.  Without  speaking, 
Wen  Ho  laid  hold  of  the  sled  rope  and  together 
the  two  men  tugged  up  the  last  steep  bit  of  the 
hill. 

"Velly  heavy  load,"  said  Wen. 

Prosper's  eyes,  gleaming  below  the  visor  of  his 
cap,  smiled  half -maliciously  upon  him.  "It's  a 
deer  killed  out  of  season,"  he  said,  "and  other 
cattle  —  no  maverick  either  —  fairly  marked  by 
its  owner.  Lend  me  a  hand  and  we'll  unload." 

Wen  showed  no  astonishment.  He  removed 
the  covering  and  peeped  slantwise  at  the  strange 
woman  who  stared  at  him  unseeingly  with  large, 
bright  eyes.  She  closed  them,  frowning  faintly  as 
though  she  protested  against  the  intrusion  of  a 
Chinese  face  into  her  disturbed  mental  world. 

The  men  took  her  up  and  carried  her  into  the 
house,  where  they  dressed  her  wound  and  laid 
her  with  all  possible  gentleness  in  one  of  the  two 


Dried  Rose-Leaves  65 

beds  of  stripped  and  lacquered  pine  that  stood  in 
the  bedroom  facing  the  lake.  Afterwards  they 
moved  the  other  bed  and  Prosper  went  in  to  his 
meal. 

He  was  too  tired  to  eat.  Soon  he  pushed  his 
plate  away,  turned  his  chair  to  face  the  fire,  and, 
slipping  down  to  the  middle  of  his  spine,  stuck  out 
his  lean,  long  legs,  locked  his  hands  back  of  his 
head,  let  his  chin  fall,  and  stared  into  the  flames. 

Wen  Ho  removed  the  dishes,  glancing  often 
at  his  master. 

"You  velly  tired?"  he  questioned  softly. 

"It  was  something  of  a  pull  in  the  storm." 

"Velly  small  deer,"  babbled  the  Chinaman, 
"velly  big  lady." 

Prosper  smiled  a  queer  smile  that  sucked  in 
and  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"She  come  after  all?"  asked  Wen  Ho. 

Prosper's  smile  disappeared;  he  opened  his 
eyes  and  turned  a  wicked,  gleaming  look  upon 
his  man.  What  with  the  white  face  and  drawn 
mouth  the  look  was  rather  terrible.  Wen  Ho  van- 
ished with  an  increase  of  speed  and  silence. 

Alone,  Prosper  twisted  himself  in  his  chair  till 
his  head  rested  on  his  arms.  It  was  no  relaxation 
of  weariness  or  grief,  but  an  attitude  of  cramped 
pain.  His  face,  too,  was  cramped  when,  a  motion- 


66  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

less  hour  later,  he  lifted  it  again.  He  got  up  then, 
broken  with  weariness,  and  went  softly  across 
the  matted  hall  into  the  room  where  Joan  slept, 
and  he  stood  beside  her  bed. 

A  glow  from  the  stove,  and  the  light  shining 
through  the  door,  dimly  illumined  her.  She  was 
sleeping  very  quietly  now;  the  flush  of  fever  had 
left  her  face  and  it  was  clear  of  pain,  quite  simple 
and  sad.  Prosper  looked  at  her  and  looked  about 
the  room  as  though  he  felt  what  he  saw  to  be  a 
dream.  He  put  his  hand  on  one  long  strand  of 
Joan's  black  hair. 

"Poor  child!"  he  said.  "Good  child!"  And 
went  out  softly,  shutting  the  door. 

In  the  bedroom  where  Joan  came  again  to 
altered  consciousness  of  life,  there  stood  a  blue 
china  jar  of  potpourri,  rose-leaves  dried  and 
spiced  till  they  stored  all  the  richness  of  a  South- 
ern summer.  Joan's  first  question,  strangely 
enough,  was  drawn  from  her  by  the  persistence 
of  this  vague  and  pungent  sweetness. 

She  was  lying  quietly  with  closed  eyes,  Prosper 
looking  down  at  her,  his  finger  on  her  even  pulse, 
when,  without  opening  her  long  lids,  she  asked, 
"What  smells  so  good?" 

Prosper  started,  drew  away  his  fingers,  then 


Dried  Rose-Leaves  67 

answered,  smiling,  "It's  a  jar  of  dried  rose- 
leaves.  Wait  a  moment,  I'll  let  you  hold  it." 

He  took  the  jar  from  the  window  sill  and  car- 
ried it  to  her. 

She  looked  at  it,  took  it  in  her  hands,  and  when 
he  removed  the  lid,  she  stirred  the  leaves  curi- 
ously with  her  long  forefinger. 

"I  never  seen  roses,"  she  said,  and  added, 
"What's  basil?" 

Prosper  was  startled.  For  an  instant  all  his 
suppositions  as  to  Joan  were  disturbed.  "Basil? 
Where  did  you  ever  hear  of  basil?" 

"Isabella  and  Lorenzo,"  murmured  Joan,  and 
her  eyes  darkened  with  her  memories. 

Prosper  found  his  heart  beating  faster  than 
usual.  "Who  are  you,  you  strange  creature?  I 
think  it 's  time  you  told  me  your  name.  Have  n't 
you  any  curiosity  about  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Joan;  "I've  thought  a  great  deal 
about  you."  She  wrinkled  her  wide  brows.  "You 
must  have  been  out  after  game,  though  't  was 
out  of  season.  And  you  must  have  heard  me 
a-cryin'  out  an'  come  in.  That  was  right  cour- 
ageous, stranger.  I  would  surely  like  you  to  know 
why  I  come  away  with  you,"  she  went  on,  wist- 
ful and  weak,  "but  I  don't  know  as  how  I  can 
make  it  plain  to  you."  She  paused,  turning  the 


68  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

blue  jar  in  her  hand.  "You're  very  strange  to 
me,"  she  said,  "an*  yet,  someways,  you  takin' 
care  of  me  so  well  an'  so  —  so  awful  kind  — " 
her  voice  gave  forth  its  tremolo  of  feeling  — 
"seems  like  I  knowed  you  better  than  any  other 
person  in  the  world." 

A  flush  came  into  his  face. 

"I  would  n't  like  you  to  be  thinkin'  — "  She 
stopped,  a  little  breathless. 

He  took  the  jar,  sat  down  on  the  bed,  and  laid 
a  hand  firmly  over  both  of  hers.  "I  'won't  be 
thinking'  anything,"  he  said,  "only  what  you 
would  like  me  to  think.  Listen  —  when  a  man 
finds  a  wounded  bird  out  in  the  winter  woods, 
he'll  bring  it  home  to  care  for  it.  And  he  'won't 
be  thinking'  the  worse  of  its  helplessness  and 
tameness.  Of  course  I  know  —  but  tell  me  your 
name,  please!" 

"Joan  Landis." 

At  the  name,  given  painfully,  Joan  drew  a 
weighted  breath,  another,  then,  pushing  herself 
up  as  though  oppressed  beyond  endurance,  she 
caught  at  Prosper's  arm,  clenched  her  fingers 
upon  it,  and  bent  her  black  head  in  a  terrible 
paroxysm  of  grief.  It  was  like  a  tempest.  Prosper 
thought  of  storm-driven,  rain-wet  trees  wild  in 
a  wind  ...  of  music,  the  prelude  to  "  Fliegende; 


Dried  Rose-Leaves  69 

Hollander."  Joan's  weeping  bent  and  rocked  her. 
He  put  his  arm  about  her,  tried  to  soothe  her. 
At  her  cry  of  "Pierre!  Pierre!"  he  whitened,  but 
suddenly  she  broke  from  him  and  threw  herself 
back  amongst  the  pillows. 

"  'T  was  you  that  killed  him,"  she  moaned. 
"What  hev  I  to  do  with  you?" 

It  was  not  the  last  time  that  bitter  exclamation 
was  to  rise  between  them;  more  and  more  fiercely 
it  came  to  wring  his  peace  and  hers.  This  tune 
he  bore  it  with  a  certain  philosophy,  calmed  her 
patiently. 

"How  could  I  help  it,  Joan?"  he  pleaded. 
"You  saw  how  it  was?"  As  she  grew  quieter,  he 
talked.  "I  heard  you  scream  like  a  person  being 
tortured  to  death  —  twice  —  a  gruesome  enough 
sound,  let  me  tell  you,  to  hear  in  the  dead  of  a 
white,  still  night.  I  did  n't  altogether  want  to 
break  into  your  house.  I've  heard  some  ugly 
stories  about  men  venturing  to  disturb  the  work 
of  murderers.  But,  you  see,  Joan,  I've  a  fear  of 
myself.  I  've  a  cruel  brain.  I  can  use  it  on  my  own 
failures.  I've  been  through  some  self -punish- 
ment —  no!  of  course,  you  don't  understand  all 
that.  .  .  .  Anyway,  I  came  in,  in  great  fear  of 
nay  life,  and  saw  what  I  saw  —  a  woman  tied  up 
and  devilishly  tortured,  a  man  gloating  over  her 


70  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

helplessness.  Naturally,  before  I  spoke  my  mind, 
as  a  man  was  bound  to  speak  it,  under  the  pain 
and  fury  of  such  a  spectacle,  I  got  ready  to  de- 
fend myself.  Your  —  Pierre"  —  there  was  a  bit- 
ing contempt  in  his  tone  —  "saw  my  gesture, 
whipped  out  his  gun,  and  fired.  My  shot  was 
half  a  second  later  than  his.  I  might  more  readily 
have  lost  my  life  than  taken  his.  If  he  had  lived, 
Joan,  could  you  have  forgiven  him?" 

"No,"  sobbed  Joan;  "I  think  not."  She  trem- 
bled. "He  said  terrible  hard  words  to  me.  He 
did  n't  love  me  like  I  loved  him.  He  planned  to 
put  a  brand  on  me  so 's  I  c'd  be  his  own  like  as  if 
I  was  a  beast  belongin'  to  him.  Mr.  Holliwell  said 
right,  I  don't  belong  to  no  man.  I  belong  to  my 
own  self." 

The  storm  had  passed  into  this  troubled  after- 
tossing  of  thought. 

"Can  you  tell  me  about  it  all?"  asked  Prosper. 
"Would  it  help?" 

"I  couldn't,"  she  moaned;  "no,  I  could  n\ 
Only  —  if  I  had  n't  'a*  left  Pierre  a-lyin'  there 
alone.  A  dog  that  had  onct  loved  him  would  n't 
'a'  done  that."  She  sat  up  again,  white  and  wild. 
"That's  why  I  must  go  back.  I  must  surely  go. 
I  must!  Oh,  I  must!" 

"Go  back  thirty  miles  through  wet  snow  when 


Dried  Rose-Leaves  71 

you  can't  walk  across  the  room,  Joan?"  He 
smiled  pityingly. 

Her  hands  twisting  in  his,  she  stared  past  him, 
out  through  the  window,  where  the  still,  sunny 
day  shone  blue  through  shadowy  pine  branches. 
Tears  rolled  down  her  face. 

"  Can't  you  go  back?  "  She  turned  the  desolate, 
haunted  eyes  upon  him.  "Oh,  can't  you?  —  to 
do  some  kindness  to  him?  Can  you  ever  stop 
a-thinkin'  of  him  lyin'  there?" 

Prosper's  face  was  hard  through  its  gentleness. 
"I've  seen  too  many  dead  men,  less  deserving 
of  death.  But,  hush!  — you  lie  down  and  go  to 
sleep.  I'll  try  to  manage  it.  I'll  try  to  get  back 
and  show  him  some  kindness,  as  you  say.  There ! 
Will  you  be  a  good  girl  now?" 

She  fell  back  and  her  eyes  shone  their  grati- 
tude upon  him.  "Oh,  you  are  good!"  she  said. 
"When  I'm  well  —  I'll  work  for  you!" 

He  shook  his  head,  smiled,  kissed  her  hand, 
and  went  out. 

She  was  entirely  exhausted  by  her  emotion,  so 
that  all  her  memories  fell  away  from  her  and  left 
her  in  a  peaceful  blankness.  She  trusted  Prosper's 
word.  With  every  fiber  of  her  heart  she  trusted 
him,  as  simply,  as  singly,  as  foolishly  as  a  child 
trusts  God. 


CHAPTER  X 
PROSPER  COMES  TO  A  DECISION 

PERHAPS,  in  spite  of  his  gruesome  boast  as 
to  dead  men,  it  was  as  much  to  satisfy  his 
own  spirit  as  to  comfort  Joan's  that  Prosper 
actually  did  undertake  a  journey  to  the  cabin 
that  had  belonged  to  Pierre.  It  was  true  that 
Prosper  had  never  been  able  to  stop  thinking, 
not  so  much  of  the  tall,  slim  youth  lying  so  still 
across  the  floor,  all  his  beauty  and  strength 
turned  to  an  ashen  slackness,  as  of  a  brown  hand 
that  stirred.  The  motion  of  those  fingers  groping 
for  life  had  continually  disturbed  him.  The  man, 
to  Prosper's  mind,  was  an  insensate  brute,  de- 
serving of  death,  even  of  torment,  most  deserving 
of  Joan's  desertion,  nevertheless,  it  was  not  easy 
to  harden  his  nerves  against  the  picture  of  a  man 
left,  wounded  and  helpless,  to  die  slowly  alone. 
Prosper  went  back  expecting  to  find  a  dead  man, 
went  back  as  a  murderer  visits  the  scene  of  his 
crime.  He  dubbed  himself  more  judge  than  mur- 
derer, but  there  was  a  restless  misery  of  the 
imagination  not  to  be  quieted  by  names.  He  went 
back  stealthily  at  dusk,  choosing  a  dusk  of  wind- 


Prosper  Comes  to  a  Decision       73 

driven  snow  so  that  his  tracks  vanished  as  soon 
as  made.  It  was  very  desolate  —  the  blank  sur- 
face of  the  world  with  its  flying  scud,  the  blank 
yellow-gray  sky,  the  range,  all  iron  and  white, 
the  blue-black  scars  of  leafless  trees,  the  green- 
black  etchings  of  firs.  The  wind  cut  across  like  a 
scythe,  sharp,  but  making  no  stir  above  the  drift. 
It  was  all  dead  and  dark  —  an  underground 
world  which,  Prosper  felt,  never  could  have  seen 
the  sun,  had  no  memory  of  sun  nor  moon  nor 
stars.  The  roof  of  Pierre's  cabin  made  a  dark 
ridge  above  the  snow,  veiled  in  cloudy  drift.  He 
reached  it  with  a  cold  heart  and  slid  down  to  its 
window,  cautiously  bending  his  face  near  to  the 
pane.  He  expected  an  interior  already  dark  from 
the  snow  piled  round  the  window,  so  he  cupped 
his  hands  about  his  eyes.  At  once  he  let  himself 
drop  out  of  sight  below  the  sill.  There  was  a  liv- 
ing presence  in  the  house.  Prosper  had  seen  a 
bright  fire,  the  smoke  of  which  had  been  hidden 
by  the  snow-spray,  a  cot  was  drawn  up  before  the 
fire,  and  a  big,  fair  young  man  in  tweeds  whose 
face,  rosy,  sensitive,  and  quiet,  was  bent  over  the 
figure  on  the  cot.  A  pair  of  large,  white  hands 
were  carefully  busy. 

Prosper,  crouched  below  the  window,  consid- 
ered what  he  had  seen.  It  was  a  week  now  since 


74  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

he  had  left  Landis  for  a  dying  man.  This  big  fel- 
low in  tweeds  must  have  come  soon  after  the 
shooting.  Evidently  he  was  not  caring  for  a  dead 
man.  The  black  head  on  the  pillow  had  moved. 
Now  there  came  the  sound  of  speech,  just  a  bass 
murmur.  This  time  the  black  head  turned  itself 
slightly  and  Prosper  saw  Pierre's  face.  He  had  seen 
it  only  twice  before;  once  when  it  had  looked  up, 
fierce  and  crazed,  at  his  first  entrance  into  the 
house,  once  again  when  it  lay  with  lifted  chin  and 
pale  lips  on  the  floor.  But  even  after  so  scarce  a 
memory,  Prosper  was  startled  by  the  change. 
Before,  it  had  been  the  face  of  a  man  beside  him- 
self with  drink  and  the  lust  of  animal  power  and 
cruelty;  now  it  was  the  wistful  face  of  Pierre, 
drawn  into  a  tragic  mask  like  Joan's  when  she 
came  to  herself;  a  miserably  haunted  and  har- 
rowed face,  hopeless  as  though  it,  too,  like  the 
outside  world,  had  lost  or  had  never  had  a  mem- 
ory of  sun.  Evidently  he  submitted  to  the  dress- 
ing of  his  wound,  but  with  a  shamed  and  pitiful 
look.  Prosper's  whole  impression  of  the  man  was 
changed,  and  with  the  change  there  began  some- 
thing like  a  struggle.  He  was  afflicted  by  a  cross- 
ing of  purposes  and  a  stumbling  of  intention. 

He  did  not  care  to  risk  a  second  look.  He  crept 
away  and  fled  into  the  windy  dusk.  He  traveled 


Prosper  Comes  to  a  Decision       75 

with  the  wind  like  a  blown  rag,  and,  stopping 
only  for  a  few  hours'  rest  at  the  ranger  station, 
made  the  journey  home  by  morning  of  the  second 
day.  And  on  the  journey  he  definitely  made  up 
his  mind  concerning  Joan. 

Prosper  Gael  was  a  man  of  deliberate,  though 
passionate,  imagination.  He  did  not  often  act 
upon  impulse,  though  his  actions  were  often  those 
attempted  only  by  passion-driven  or  impulsive 
folk.  Prosper  could  never  plead  thoughtlessness. 
He  justified  carefully  his  every  action  to  himself. 
Those  were  cold,  dark  hours  of  deliberation  as  he 
let  the  wind  drive  him  across  the  desolate  land. 
When  the  wind  dropped  and  a  splendid,  still 
dawn  swept  up  into  the  clean  sky,  he  was  at 
peace  with  his  own  mind  and  climbed  up  the 
mountain  trail  with  a  half -smile  on  his  face. 

In  the  dawn,  awake  on  her  pillows,  Joan  was 
listening  for  him,  and  at  the  sound  of  his  webs 
she  sat  up,  pale  to  her  lips.  She  did  not  know 
what  she  feared,  but  she  was  filled  with  dread. 
The  restful  stupor  that  had  followed  her  storm 
of  grief  had  spent  itself  and  she  was  suffering 
again  —  waves  of  longing  for  Pierre,  of  hatred 
for  him,  alternately  submerged  her.  All  these 
bleak,  gray  hours  of  wind  during  which  Wen  Ho 


76  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

had  pattered  in  and  out  with  meals,  with  wood 
for  her  stove,  with  little  questions  as  to  her  com- 
fort, she  had  suffered  as  people  suffer  in  a  dream; 
a  restless  misery  like  the  misery  of  the  pine 
branches  that  leaped  up  and  down  before  her 
window.  The  stillness  of  the  dawn,  with  its  sound 
of  nearing  steps,  gave  her  a  sickness  of  heart  and 
brain,  so  that  when  Prosper  came  softly  in  at  her 
door  she  saw  him  through  a  mist.  He  moved 
quickly  to  her  side,  knelt  by  her,  took  her  hands. 
His  touch  at  all  times  had  a  tingling  charge  of 
vitality  and  will. 

"He  has  been  cared  for,  Joan,"  said  Prosper. 
"Some  friend  of  his  came  and  did  all  that  was 
left  to  be  don«." 

"Some  friend?"  In  the  pale,  delicately  expand- 
ing light  Joan's  face  gleamed  between  its  black 
coils  of  hair  with  eyes  like  enchanted  tarns.  In 
fact  they  had  been  haunted  during  his  absence 
by  images  to  shake  her  soul.  Prosper  could  see 
in  them  reflections  of  those  terrors  that  had  been 
tormenting  her.  His  touch  pressed  reassurance 
upon  her,  his  eyes,  his  voice. 

"My  poor  child!  My  dear!  I 'm  glad  I  am  back 
to  take  care  of  you!  Cry.  Let  me  comfort  you. 
He  has  been  cared  for.  He  is  not  lying  there 
alone.  He  is  dead.  Let's  forgive  him,  Joan."  He 


Prosper  Comes  to  a  Decision       77 

shook  her  hands  a  little,  urgently,  and  a  most 
painful  memory  of  Pierre's  beseeching  grasp 
came  upon  Joan. 

She  wrenched  away  and  fell  back,  quivering, 
but  she  did  not  cry,  only  asked  in  her  most  mov- 
ing voice,  "Who  took  care  of  Pierre  —  after  I 
went  away  and  left  him  dead?" 

Prosper  got  to  his  feet  and  stood  with  his  arms 
folded,  looking  wearily  down  at  her.  His  mouth 
had  fallen  into  rather  cynical  lines  and  there  were 
puckers  at  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  "Oh,  a  big, 
fair  young  man  —  a  rosy  boy-face,  serious-look- 
ing, blue  eyes." 

Joan  was  startled  and  turned  round.  "It  was 
Mr.  Holliwell,"  she  said,  in  a  wondering  tone. 
"Did  you  talk  with  him?  Did  you  tell  him  — ?" 

"No.  Hardly."  Prosper  shook  his  head.  "I 
found  out  what  he  had  done  for  your  Pierre  with- 
out asking  unnecessary  questions.  I  saw  him,  but 
he  did  not  see  me." 

"He'll  be  comin'  to  get  me,"  said  Joan.  It 
was  an  entirely  unemotional  statement  of  cer- 
tainty. 

Prosper  pressed  his  lips  into  a  line  and  nar- 
rowed his  eyes  upon  her. 

"Oh,  he  will?" 

"Yes.  He'll  be  takin'  after  me.  He  must  V 


78  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

ben  scairt  by  somethin'  Pierre  said  in  the  town 
durin'  their  quarrel  an'  have  come  up  after  him 
to  look  out  what  Pierre  would  be  doin'  to  me. 
...  I  wisht  he'd  'a'  come  in  time.  .  .  .  What 
must  he  be  thinkin'  of  me  now,  to  find  Pierre 
a-lyin'  there  dead,  an'  me  gone!  He'll  be  takin' 
after  me  to  bring  me  home." 

Prosper  would  almost  have  questioned  her 
then,  his  sharp  face  was  certainly  at  that  mo- 
ment the  face  of  an  inquisitor,  a  set  of  keen  and 
delicate  instruments  ready  for  probing,  but  so 
weary  and  childlike  did  she  look,  so  weary  and 
childlike  was  her  speech,  that  he  forbore.  What 
did  it  matter,  after  all,  what  there  was  in  her 
past?  She  had  done  what  she  had  done,  been 
what  she  had  been.  If  the  fellow  had  branded  her 
for  sin,  why,  she  had  suffered  overmuch.  Prosper 
admitted,  that,  unbranded  as  to  skin,  he  was 
scarcely  fit  to  put  his  dirty  civilized  soul  under 
her  clean  and  savage  foot.  Was  the  big,  rosy 
chap  her  lover?  She  had  spoken  of  a  quarrel  be- 
tween him  and  Pierre?  But  her  manner  of  speak- 
ing of  him  was  scarcely  in  keeping  with  the 
thought,  rather  it  was  the  manner  of  a  child-soul 
relying  on  the  Shepherd  who  would  be  "  takin' 
after"  some  small,  lost  one.  Well,  he  would  have 
to  be  a  superman  to  find  her  here  with  no  trails 


Prosper  Comes  to  a  Decision       79 

to  follow  and  no  fingers  to  point.  Pierre  by  now 
would  have  told  his  story  —  and  Prosper  knew 
instinctively  that  he  would  tell  it  straight;  what- 
ever madness  the  young  savage  might  perpe- 
trate under  the  influence  of  drink  and  jealousy, 
he  would  hardly,  with  that  harrowed  face,  be  apt 
at  fabrications  —  they  would  be  looking  for  Joan 
to  come  back,  to  go  to  the  town,  to  some  neigh- 
boring ranch.  They  would  make  a  search,  but 
winter  would  be  against  them  with  its  teeth 
bared,  a  blizzard  was  on  its  way.  By  the  time 
they  found  her,  thought  Prosper,  —  and  he 
quoted  one  of  Joan's  quaint  phrases  to  himself, 
smiling  with  radiance  as  he  did  so,  —  "  she  won't 
be  carin'  to  leave  me."  In  his  gay,  little,  firelit 
room,  he  sat,  stretched  out,  lank  and  long,  in  the 
low,  deep,  red-lacquered  chair,  dozing  through 
the  long  day,  sipping  strong  coffee,  smoking, 
reading.  He  was  singularly  quiet  and  content. 
The  devil  of  disappointment  and  of  thwarted 
desire  that  had  wived  him  in  this  carefully  ap- 
pointed hiding-place  stood  away  a  little  from  him 
and  that  wizard  imagination  of  his  began  to 
weave.  By  dusk,  he  was  writing  furiously  and 
there  was  a  glow  of  rapture  on  his  face. 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  WHOLE  DUTY  OF  WOMAN 

JOAN  waited  for  Holliwell  and,  waiting,  be- 
gan inevitably  to  regain  her  strength.  One 
evening  as  Wen  Ho  was  spreading  the  table, 
Prosper  looked  up  from  his  writing  to  see  a  tall, 
gaunt  girl  clinging  to  the  door- jamb.  She  was 
dressed  in  the  heavy  clothes,  which  hung  loose 
upon  her  long  bones,  her  throat  was  drawn  up 
to  support  the  sharpened  and  hollowed  face  in 
which  her  eyes  had  grown  very  large  and  wistful. 
Her  hair  was  braided  and  wrapped  across  her 
brow,  her  long,  strong  hands,  smooth  and  only 
faintly  brown,  were  thin,  too,  and  curiously 
expressive  as  they  clung  to  the  logs.  She  was  a 
moving  figure,  piteous,  lovely,  rather  like  some 
graceful  mountain  beast,  its  spirit  half-broken 
by  wounds  and  imprisonment  and  human  tend- 
ing, but  ready  to  leap  into  a  savagery  of  flight  or 
of  attack.  They  were  wild,  those  great  eyes,  as 
well  as  wistful.  Prosper,  looking  suddenly  up  at 
them,  caught  his  breath.  He  put  down  his  book 
as  quietly  as  though  she  had  indeed  been  a  wild, 
easily  startled  thing,  and,  suppressing  the  impulse 


The  Whole  Duty  of  Woman      81 

to  rise,  stayed  where  he  was,  leaning  a  trifle  for- 
ward, his  hands  on  the  arms  of  his  chair. 

Joan's  eyes  wandered  curiously  about  the  bril- 
liant room  and  came  to  him  at  last.  Prosper  met 
them,  relaxed,  and  smiled. 

"Come  in  and  dine  with  me,  Joan,"  he  said. 
"Tell  me  how  you  like  it." 

She  felt  her  way  weakly  to  the  second  large 
chair  and  sat  down  facing  him  across  the  hearth. 
The  Chinaman's  shadow,  thrown  strongly  by  the 
lamp,  ran  to  and  fro  between  and  across  them. 
It  was  a  strange  scene  truly,  and  Prosper  felt 
with  exhilaration  all  its  strangeness.  This  was 
no  Darby  and  Joan  fireside;  a  wizard  with  his 
enchanted  leopardess,  rather.  He  was  half -afraid 
of  Joan  and  of  himself. 

"It's  right  beautiful,"  said  Joan,  "an'  right 
strange  to  me.  I  never  seen  anything  like  it  be- 
fore. That"  —  her  eyes  followed  Wen  Ho's  de- 
parture half -fearfully  —  "that  man  and  all." 

Prosper  laughed  delightedly,  stretching  up  his 
arms  in  full  enjoyment  of  her  splendid  ignorance. 
"The  Chinaman?  Does  he  look  so  strange  to 

you?" 

"Is  that  what  he  is?  I  —  I  did  n't  know."  She 
smiled  rather  sadly  and  ashamedly.  "I'm  awful 
ignorant,  Mr.  Gael.  I  just  can  read  an'  I  've  only 


82  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

read  two  books."  She  flushed  and  her  pupils 
grew  large. 

Prosper  saw  that  this  matter  of  reading  trod 
closely  on  her  pain. 

"Yes,  he's  a  Chinaman  from  San  Francisco. 
You  know  where  that  is." 

"Yes,  sir.  I've  heard  talk  of  it  —  out  on  the 
Pacific  Coast,  a  big  city." 

"Full  of  bad  yellow  men  and  a  few  good  ones 
of  whom  let's  hope  Wen  Ho  is  one.  And  full  of 
bric-a-brac  like  all  these  things  that  surprise  you 
so.  Do  you  like  bright  colors,  Joan?" 

She  pondered  in  the  unself -conscious  and  un- 
hurried fashion  of  the  West,  stroking  the  yellow, 
spotted  skin  that  lay  over  the  black  arm  of  her 
chair  and  letting  her  eyes  flit  like  butterflies  in  a 
garden  on  a  zigzag  journey  to  one  after  another 
of  the  flowers  of  color  in  the  room. 

"Well,  sir,"  she  said,  "I  c'd  take  to  'em  better 
if  they  was  more  one  at  a  time.  I  mean"  —  she 
pushed  up  the  braid  a  little  from  wrinkling  brows 
—  "jest  blue  is  awful  pretty  an'  jest  green. 
They're  sort  of  cool,  an'  yeller,  that's  sure  fine. 
You  'd  like  to  take  it  in  your  hands.  Red  is  most 
too  much  like  feelin'  things.  I  dunno,  it  most 
hurts  an'  yet  it  warms  you  up,  too.  If  I  hed  to 
live  here  — " 


The  Whole  Duty  of  Woman       83 

Prosper 's  eyebrows  lifted  a  trifle. 

"I'd  —  sure  clear  out  the  whole  of  this"  — • 
and  she  swept  a  ruthless  hand. 

Again  Prosper  made  delighted  use  of  that  up- 
ward stretching  of  his  arms.  He  laughed.  "And 
you'd  clear  me  out,  too,  would  n't  you?  —  if  you 
had  to  live  here." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Joan.  She  paused  and  fastened 
her  enormous,  grave  look  upon  him.  "I'd  like 
right  soon  now  to  begin  to  work  for  you." 

Again  Prosper  laughed.  "Why,"  said  he,  "you 
don't  know  the  first  thing  about  woman's  work, 
Joan.  What  could  you  do?" 

Joan  straightened  wrathfully.  "I  sure  do  know. 
Sure  I  do.  I  can  cook  fine.  I  can  make  a  room 
clean.  I  can  launder  — " 

"Oh,  pooh!  The  Chinaman  does  all  that  as 
well  —  no,  better  than  you  ever  could  do  it. 
That's  not  woman's  work." 

Joan  saw  all  the  business  of  femininity  swept 
off  the  earth.  Profound  astonishment,  incredulity, 
and  alarm  possessed  her  mind  and  so  her  face. 
Truly,  thought  Prosper,  it  was  like  talking  to  a 
grave,  trustful,  and  most  impressionable  child,  the 
way  she  sat  there,  rather  on  the  edge  of  her  chair, 
her  hands  folded,  letting  everything  he  said  dis- 
turb and  astonish  the  whole  pool  of  her  thought. 


84  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

"But,  Mr.  Gael,  sweepin',  washin',  cookin',  — 
ain't  all  that  a  woman's  work?  " 

"Men  can  do  it  so  much  better,"  said  Prosper, 
blowing  forth  a  cloud  of  blue  cigarette  smoke  and 
brushing  it  impatiently  aside  so  that  he  could 
smile  at  her  evident  offense  and  perplexity. 

"But  they  don't  do  it  better.  They  're  as  messy 
an'  uncomfortable  as  they  can  be  when  there 
ain't  no  woman  to  look  after  'em." 

"Not  if  they  get  good  pay  for  keeping  them- 
selves and  other  people  tidy.  Look  at  Wen  Ho." 

"Oh,"  said  Joan,  "that  ain't  properly  a  man." 

Prosper  laughed  out  again.  It  was  good  to  be 
able  to  laugh. 

"I've  known  plenty  of  real  white  men  who 
could  cook  and  wash  better  than  any  woman." 

"But  —  but  what  is  a  woman's  work?" 

Prosper  remained  thoughtful  for  a  while,  his 
head  thrown  back  a  little,  looking  at  her  through 
his  eyelashes.  In  this  position  he  was  extraordi- 
narily striking.  His  thin,  sharp  face  gained  by 
the  slight  foreshortening  and  his  brilliant  eyes, 
keen  nose,  and  high  brow  did  not  quite  so  com- 
pletely overbalance  the  sad  and  delicate  strength 
of  mouth  and  chin.  In  Joan's  eyes,  used  to  the 
obvious,  clear  beauty  of  Pierre,  Gael  was  an 
ugly  fellow,  but  even  she,  artistically  untrained, 


The  Whole  Duty  of  Woman      85 

caught  at  the  moment  the  picturesqueness  and 
grace  of  him,  the  mysterious  lines  of  texture,  of 
race;  the  bold  chiselings  of  thought  and  experi- 
ence. The  colors  of  the  room  became  him,  too,  for 
he  was  dark,  with  curious,  catlike,  greenish  eyes. 

"The  whole  duty  of  woman,  Joan,"  he  said, 
opening  these  eyes  upon  her,  "can  be  expressed 
in  just  one  little  word  —  charm." 

And  again  at  her  look  of  mystification  he 
laughed  aloud. 

"There's  —  there's  babies,"  suggested  Joan 
after  a  pause  during  which  she  evidently  wrestled 
in  vain  with  the  true  meaning  of  his  speech. 

"Dinner  is  served,"  said  Prosper,  rising 
quickly,  and,  getting  back  of  her,  he  pushed  her 
chair  to  the  table,  hiding  in  this  way  a  silent 
paroxysm  of  mirth. 

At  dinner,  Prosper,  unlike  Holliwell,  made  no 
attempt  to  draw  Joan  into  talk,  but  sipped  his 
wine  and  watched  her,  enjoying  her  composed 
silence  and  her  slow,  graceful  movements.  After- 
wards he  made  a  couch  for  her  on  the  floor  before 
the  fire,  two  skins  and  a  golden  cushion,  a  rug  of 
dull  blue  which  he  threw  over  her,  hiding  the 
ugly  skirt  and  boots.  He  took  a  violin  from  the 
wall  and  tuned  it,  Joan  watching  him  with  all 
her  eyes. 


86  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

"I  don't  like  what  you're  playin'  now,"  she 
told  him,  impersonally  and  gently. 

"I'm  tuning  up." 

"Well,  sir,  I'd  be  gettin'  tired  of  that  if  I 
was  you." 

"I'm  almost  done,"  said  Prosper  humbly. 

He  stood  up  near  her  feet  at  the  corner  of  the 
hearth,  tucked  the  instrument  under  his  chin  and 
played.  It  was  the  "  Aubade  Provengale,"  and  he 
played  it  creditably,  with  fair  skill  and  with  some 
of  the  wizardry  that  his  nervous  vitality  gave  to 
everything  he  did.  At  the  first  note  Joan  started, 
her  pupils  enlarged,  she  lay  still.  At  the  end  he 
saw  that  she  was  quivering  and  in  tears. 

He  knelt  down  beside  her,  drew  the  hands 
from  her  face.  "Why,  Joan,  what's  the  matter? 
Don't  you  like  music?" 

Joan  drew  a  shaken  breath.  "It's  as  if  it  shook 
me  in  here,  something  trembles  in  my  heart,"  she 
said.  "I  never  heerd  music  before,  jest  whistlin'." 
And  again  she  wept. 

Prosper  stayed  there  on  his  knee  beside  her, 
his  chin  in  his  hand.  What  an  extraordinary  being 
this  was,  what  a  magnificent  wilderness.  The 
thought  of  exploration,  of  discovery,  of  cultiva- 
tion, filled  him  with  excitement  and  delight. 
Such  opportunities  are  rarely  given  to  a  man. 


The  Whole  Duty  of  Woman      87 

Even  that  other  most  beautiful  adventure  — 
yes,  he  could  think  this  already !  —  might  have 
been  tame  beside  this  one.  He  looked  long  at 
Joan,  long  into  the  fire,  and  she  lay  still,  with  the 
brooding  beauty  of  that  first-heard  melody  upon 
her  face. 

It  was  the  first  music  she  had  ever  heard,  "ex- 
cept whistlin',"  but  there  had  been  a  great  deal 
of  "whistlin"'  about  the  cabin  up  Lone  River; 
whistling  of  robins  in  spring  —  nothing  sweeter 
—  the  chordlike  whistlings  of  thrush  and  vireo 
after  sunset,  that  bubbling  "  mar-guer-ite "  with 
which  the  blackbirds  woo,  and  the  light  dimin- 
uendo with  which  the  bluebird  caressed  the 
air  after  an  April  flight.  Perhaps  Joan's  musical 
faculty  was  less  untrained  than  any  other.  After 
all,  that  "Aubade  Provengale"  was  just  the 
melodious  story  of  the  woods  in  spring.  Every 
note  linked  itself  to  an  emotional,  subconscious 
memory.  It  filled  Joan's  heart  with  the  freshness 
of  childhood  and  pained  her  only  because  it 
struck  a  spear  of  delight  into  her  pain.  She  was 
eighteen,  she  had  grown  like  a  tree,  drinking  in 
sunshine  and  storm,  but  rooted  to  a  solitude 
where  very  little  else  but  sense-experience  could 
reach  her  mind.  She  had  seen  tragedies  of  animal 
life,  lonely  death-struggles,  horrible  flights  and 


88  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

more  horrible  captures,  she  had  seen  joyous  woo- 
ings,  love-pinings,  partings,  and  bereavements. 
She  had  seen  maternal  fickleness  and  maternal 
constancy,  maternal  savagery;  the  end  of  mated 
bliss  and  its  —  renewal.  She  had  seen  the  relent- 
less catastrophes  of  storm.  There  had  been  starv- 
ing winters  and  renewing  springs,  sad  beautiful 
autumns,  the  riotous  waste  and  wantonness  of 
summer.  These  had  all  been  objective  experiences, 
but  Joan's  untamed  and  undistracted  heart  had 
taken  them  in  deeply  and  deeply  pondered  upon 
them.  There  was  no  morality  in  their  teachings, 
unless  it  was  the  morality  of  complete  suspension 
of  any  judgment  whatsoever,  the  marvelous  lit- 
eral, "Judge  not."  She  knew  that  the  sun  shone 
on  the  evil  and  on  the  good,  but  she  knew  also 
that  frost  fell  upon  the  good  as  well  as  upon  the 
evil  nor  was  the  evil  to  be  readily  distinguished. 
Her  father  prated  of  only  one  offense,  her  mother's 
sin.  Joan  knew  that  it  was  a  man's  right  to  kill 
his  woman  for  "  dealin's  with  another  man."  This 
law  was  human;  it  evidently  did  not  hold  good 
with  animals.  There  was  no  bitterness,  though 
some  ferocity,  in  the  traffic  of  their  loves. 

While  she  pondered  through  the  first  sleepless 
nights  in  this  strange  shelter  of  hers,  and  while 
the  blizzard  Prosper  had  counted  on  drove  bayo- 


The  Whole  Duty  of  Woman       89 

neted  battalions  of  snow  across  the  plains  and 
forced  them,  screaming  like  madmen,  along  the 
narrow  canon,  Joan  came  slowly  and  fully  to  a 
realization  of  the  motive  of  Pierre's  deed.  He  had 
been  jealous.  He  had  thought  that  she  was  hav- 
ing dealings  with  another  man.  She  grew  hot  and 
shamed.  It  was  her  father's  sin,  that  branding  on 
her  shoulder,  or,  perhaps,  going  back  farther,  her 
mother's  sin.  Carver  had  warned  Pierre  —  of  the 
hot  and  smothered  heart  —  to  beware  of  Joan's 
"lookin'  an'  lookin'  at  another  man."  Now,  in 
piteous  woman  fashion,  Joan  went  over  and  over 
her  memories  of  Pierre's  love,  altering  them  to 
fit  her  terrible  experience.  It  was  a  different  pro- 
cess from  that  simple  seeing  of  pictures  in  the 
fire  from  which  she  had  been  startled  by  Pierre's 
return.  A  man's  mind  in  her  situation  would  have 
been  intensely  occupied  with  thoughts  of  the 
new  companion,  but  Joan,  thorough  as  a  woman 
always  is,  had  not  yet  caught  up.  She  was  still 
held  by  all  the  strong  mesh  of  her  short  married 
life.  She  had  simply  not  got  as  far  as  Prosper 
Gael.  She  accepted  his  hospitality  vaguely,  him- 
self even  more  vaguely.  When  she  would  be  done 
with  her  passionate  grief,  her  laborious  going- 
over  of  the  past,  her  active  and  tormenting  anger 
with  the  lover  whom  Prosper  had  told  her  was 


90  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

dead,  then  it  would  be  time  to  study  this  other 
man.  As  for  her  future,  she  had  no  plans  at  all. 
Joan's  life  came  to  her  as  it  comes  to  a  child, 
unsullied  by  curiosity.  At  this  time  Prosper  was 
infinitely  the  more  curious,  the  more  excited  of 
the  two. 


CHAPTER  XII 
A  MATTER  OF  TASTE 

WHAT  are  you  writin'  so  hard  for,  Mr.  Gael?" 
Joan  voiced  the  question  wistfully  on  the 
height  of  a  long  breath.  She  drew  it  from  a  silence 
which  seemed  to  her  to  have  filled  this  strange, 
gay  house  for  an  eternity.  For  the  first  time  full 
awareness  of  the  present  cut  a  rift  in  the  troubled 
cloudiness  of  her  introspection.  She  had  been 
sitting  in  her  chair,  listless  and  wan,  now  staring 
at  the  flames,  now  following  Wen  Ho's  activities 
with  absent  eyes.  A  storm  was  swirling  outside. 
Near  the  window,  Prosper,  a  figure  of  keen 
absorption,  bent  over  his  writing-table,  his  long, 
fine  hand  driving  the  pencil  across  sheet  after 
sheet.  He  looked  like  a  machine,  so  regular  and 
rapid  was  his  work.  A  sudden  sense  of  isolation 
came  upon  Joan.  What  part  had  she  in  the  life 
of  this  companion,  this  keeper  of  her  own  We? 
She  felt  a  great  need  of  drawing  nearer  to  him,  of 
finding  the  humanity  in  him.  At  first  she  fought 
the  impulse,  reserve,  pride,  shyness  locking  her 
down,  till  at  last  her  nerves  gave  her  such  tor- 
ment that  her  fingers  knitted  into  each  other 


92  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

and  on  the  outbreathing  of  a  desperate  sigh  she 
spoke. 

"What  are  you  writin'  so  hard  for,  Mr.  Gael? " 
At  once  Prosper's  hand  laid  down  its  pencil  and 
he  turned  about  in  his  chair  and  gave  her  a 
gleaming  look  and  smile.  Joan  was  fairly  startled. 
It  was  as  if  she  had  touched  some  mysterious 
spring  and  turned  on  a  dazzling,  unexpected 
light.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Prosper's  heart  had 
leapt  at  her  wistful  and  beseeching  voice. 

He  had  been  biding  his  time.  He  had  absorbed 
himself  in  writing,  content  to  leave  in  suspense 
the  training  of  his  enchanted  leopardess.  Half- 
absent  glimpses  of  her  desolate  beauty  as  she 
moved  about  his  winter-bound  house,  contempla- 
tion of  her  unself -consciousness  as  she  compan- 
ioned his  meals,  the  pleasure  he  felt  in  her  rapt 
listening  to  his  music  in  the  still,  frost-held  eve- 
nings by  the  fire  —  these  he  had  made  enough. 
They  quieted  his  restlessness,  soothed  the  ache 
of  his  heart,  filled  him  with  a  warm  and  patient 
desire,  different  from  any  feeling  he  had  yet  ex- 
perienced. He  was  amused  by  her  lack  of  interest 
in  him.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  such  through- 
gazing  from  beautiful  eyes,  such  incurious  ab- 
sence of  questioning.  She  evidently  accepted  him 
as  a  superior  being,  a  Providence;  he  was  not  a 


A  Matter  of  Taste  93 

man  at  all,  not  of  the  same  clay  as  Pierre  and 
herself.  Prosper  had  waited  understandingly 
enough  for  her  first  move.  When  the  personal 
question  came,  it  made  a  sort  of  crash  in  the 
expectant  silence  of  his  heart. 

Before  answering,  except  by  that  smile,  he  lit 
himself  a  cigarette;  then,  strolling  to  the  fire,  he 
sat  on  the  rug  below  her,  drawing  his  knees  up 
into  his  hands. 

"I'd  like  to  tell  you  about  my  writing,  Joan. 
After  all,  it's  the  great  interest  of  my  life,  and 
I've  been  fairly  seething  with  it;  only  I  did  n't 
want  to  bother  you,  worry  your  poor,  distracted 
head." 

"I  never  thought,"  said  Joan  slowly,  "I  never 
thought  you'd  be  carin'  to  tell  me  things.  I  know 
so  awful  little." 

"It  was  n't  your  modesty,  Joan.  It  was  simply 
because  you  have  n't  given  me  a  thought  since  I 
dragged  you  in  here  on  my  sled.  I  've  been  noth- 
ing" —  under  the  careless,  half -bitter  manner, 
he  was  weighing  his  words  and  their  probable 
effect  —  "nothing,  for  all  these  weeks,  but  —  a 
provider." 

"A  provider?"  Joan  groped  for  the  meaning 
of  the  word.  It  came,  and  she  flushed  deeply. 
"You  mean  I've  just  taken  things,  taken  your 


94  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

kind  doin's  toward  me  an*  not  been  givin'  you  a 
thought."  Her  eyes  filled  and  shone  mortifica- 
tion down  upon  him  so  that  he  put  his  hand 
quickly  over  hers,  tightened  together  on  her 
knee. 

"Poor  girl!  I'm  not  reproaching  you." 
"But,  Mr.  Gael,  I  wanted  to  work  for  you. 
You  would  n't  let  me."  She  brushed  away  her 
tears.  "What  can  I  do?  Where  can  I  go?" 

"You  can  stay  here  and  make  me  happy  as 
you  have  been  doing  ever  since  you  came.  I  was 
very  unhappy  before.  And  you  can  give  me  just 
as  much  or  as  little  attention  as  you  please.  I 
don't  ask  you  for  a  bit  more.  Suppose  you  stop 
grieving,  Joan,  and  try  to  be  just  a  little  happier 
yourself.  Take  an  interest  in  life.  Why,  you  poor, 
young,  ignorant  child,  I  could  open  whole  worlds 
of  excitement,  pleasure,  to  you,  if  you'd  let  me. 
There's  more  in  life  than  you've  dreamed  of 
experiencing.  There's  music,  for  one  thing,  and 
there  are  books  and  beauty  of  a  thousand  kinds, 
and  big,  wonderful  thoughts,  and  there's  com- 
panionship and  talk.  What  larks  we  could  have, 
you  and  I,  if  you  would  care  —  I  mean,  if  you 
would  wake  up  and  let  me  show  you  how.  You 
do  want  to  learn  a  woman's  work,  don't  you, 
Joan?" 


A  Matter  of  Taste  95 

She  shook  her  head  slowly,  smiling  wistfully, 
the  tears  gone  from  her  eyes,  which  were  puzzled, 
but  diverted  from  pain.  "I  didn't  savvy  what 
you  meant  when  you  talked  about  what  a 
woman's  work  rightly  was.  An'  I'm  so  awful 
ignorant,  you  know  so  awful  much.  It  scares  me, 
plumb  scares  me,  to  think  how  much  you  know, 
more  than  Mr.  Holliwell!  Such  books  an'  books 
an'  books!  An'  writin'  too.  You  see  I'd  be  no 
help  nor  company  fer  you.  I'd  like  to  listen  to 
you.  I  'd  listen  all  day  long,  but  I  'd  not  be  under- 
standin'.  No  more  than  I  understand  about  that 
there  woman's  work  idea." 

He  laughed  at  her,  keeping  reassuring  eyes  on 
hers.  "I  can  explain  anything.  I  can  make  you 
understand  anything.  I  '11  grant  you,  my  idea  of 
a  woman's  work  is  difficult  for  you  to  get  hold 
of.  That's  a  big  question,  after  all,  one  of  the 
biggest.  But  —  just  to  begin  with  and  we  '11  drop 
it  later  for  easier  things  —  I  believe,  the  world 
believes,  that  a  woman  ought  to  be  beautiful. 
You  can  understand  that?" 

Joan  shook  her  head.  "  It 's  a  awful  hard  sayin', 
Mr.  Gael.  It's  awful  hard  to  say  you  had  ought 
to  be  somethin'  a  person  can't  manage  for  them- 
selves. I  mean  — "  poor  Joan,  the  inarticulate, 
floundered,  but  he  left  her,  rather  cruelly,  to 


96  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

flounder  out.  "I  mean,  that's  an  awful  hard 
say  in'  fer  a  homely  woman,  Mr.  Gael." 

He  laughed.  "Oh,"  said  he  with  a  gesture, 
"there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  homely  woman.  A 
homely  woman  simply  does  not  count."  He  got 
up,  looked  for  a  book,  found  it,  opened  it,  and 
brought  it  to  her.  "Look  at  that  picture,  Joan. 
What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

It  was  of  a  woman,  a  long-drawn,  emaciated 
creature,  extraordinarily  artificial  in  her  grace 
and  in  the  pose  and  expression  of  her  ugly, 
charming  form  and  features.  She  had  been  aided 
by  hair-dresser  and  costumer  and  by  her  own  wit, 
aided  into  something  that  made  of  her  an  arrest- 
ing and  compelling  picture.  "What  do  you  think 
of  her,  Joan?"  smiled  Prosper  Gael. 

Joan  screwed  up  her  eyes  distastefully.  "Ain't 
she  queer,  Mr.  Gael?  Poor  thing,  she's  homely!" 

He  clapped  to  the  book.  "  A  matter  of  educated 
taste,"  he  said.  "You  don't  know  beauty  when 
you  see  it.  If  you  walked  into  a  drawing-room 
by  the  side  of  that  marvelous  being,  do  you  think 
you'd  win  a  look,  my  dear  girl?  Why,  your  great 
brows  and  your  great,  wild  eyes  and  your  face 
and  form  of  an  Olympian  and  your  free  grace  of 
a  forest  beast  —  why,  they  would  n't  be  noticed. 
Because,  Joan,  that  queer,  poor  thing  knew 


A  Matter  of  Taste  97 

woman's  work  from  A  to  Z.  She's  beautiful, 
Joan,  beautiful  as  God  most  certainly  never 
intended  her  to  be.  Why,  it's  a  triumph  — 
it's  something  to  blow  a  trumpet  over.  It's 
art!" 

He  returned  the  volume  and  came  back  to 
stand  by  the  mantel,  half -turned  from  her,  look- 
ing down  into  the  fire.  For  the  moment,  he  had 
created  in  himself  a  reaction  against  his  present 
extraordinary  experiment,  his  wilderness  adven- 
ture. He  was  keenly  conscious  of  a  desire  for 
civilized  woman,  for  her  practiced  tongue,  her 
poise,  her  matchless  companionship.  .  .  . 

Joan  spoke,  "You  mean  I'm  awful  homely, 
Mr.  Gael?" 

The  question  set  him  to  laughing  outrageously. 
Joan's  pride  was  stung. 

"You've  no  right  to  laugh  at  me,"  she  said. 
"I'd  not  be  carin'  what  you  think."  And  she 
left  him,  moving  like  an  angry  stag,  head  high, 
light-stepping. 

He  went  back  to  his  work,  not  at  all  in  regret 
at  her  pique  and  still  amused  by  the  utter  femi- 
ninity of  her  simple  question. 

Before  dinner  he  rapped  at  her  door.  "Joan, 
will  you  do  me  a  favor?  " 

A  pause,  then,  in  her  sweet,  vibrant  voice,  she 


98  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

answered,  "I'd  be  doin'  anything  fer  you,  Mr. 
Gael." 

"Then,  put  on  these  things  for  dinner  instead 
of  your  own  clothes,  will  you?  " 

She  opened  the  door  and  he  piled  into  her 
arms  a  mass  of  shining  silk,  on  top  of  it  a  pair  of 
gorgeous  Chinese  slippers. 

"  Do  it  to  please  me,  even  if  you  think  it  makes 
you  look  queer,  will  you,  Joan?" 

"Of  course,"  she  smiled,  looking  up  from  the 
gleaming,  sliding  stuff  into  his  face.  "I'd  like  to, 
anyway.  Dressing-up  —  that's  fun." 

And  she  shut  the  door. 

She  spread  the  silk  out  on  the  bed  and  found 
it  a  loose  robe  of  dull  blue,  embroidered  in  silver 
dragons  and  lined  with  brilliant  rose.  There  was 
a  skirt  of  this  same  rose-colored  stuff.  In  one 
weighted  pocket  she  found  a  belt  of  silver  coins 
and  a  little  vest  of  creamy  lace.  There  were  rose 
silk  stockings  stuffed  into  the  shoes.  Joan  eagerly 
arrayed  herself.  She  had  trouble  with  the  vest, 
it  was  so  filmy,  so  vaguely  made,  it  seemed  to 
her,  and  to  wear  it  at  all  she  had  to  divest  herself 
altogether  of  the  upper  part  of  her  coarse  under- 
wear. Then  it  seemed  to  her  startlingly  inade- 
quate even  as  an  undergarment.  However,  the 
robe  did  go  over  it,  and  she  drew  that  close  and 


A  Matter  of  Taste  99 

belted  it  in.  It  was  provided  with  long  sleeves 
and  fell  to  her  ankles.  She  thrilled  at  the  delight- 
ful clinging  softness  of  silk  stockings  and  for  the 
first  time  admired  her  long,  round  ankles  and 
shapely  feet.  The  Chinese  slippers  amused  her, 
but  they  too  were  beautiful,  all  embroidered  with 
flowers  and  dragons. 

She  felt  she  must  look  very  queer,  indeed,  and 
went  to  the  mirror.  What  she  saw  there  surprised 
her  because  it  was  so  strange,  so  different.  Pierre 
had  not  dealt  in  compliments.  His  woman  was 
his  woman  and  he  loved  her  body.  To  praise  this 
body,  surrendered  in  love  to  him,  would  have 
been  impossible  to  the  reverence  and  reserve  of 
his  passion. 

Now,  Joan  brushed  and  coiled  her  hair,  ar- 
ranging it  instinctively,  but  perhaps  a  little  in 
imitation  of  that  queer  picture  that  had  looked 
to  her  so  hideous.  Then,  starting  toward  the  door 
at  Wen  Ho's  announcement  of  "Dinner,  lady," 
she  was  quite  suddenly  overwhelmed  by  shyness. 
From  head  to  foot  for  the  first  time  in  all  her  life 
she  was  acutely  conscious  of  herself. 


CHAPTER 
THE  TRAINING  OF  A  LEOPARDESS 

ON  that  evening  Prosper  began  to  talk.  The 
unnatural  self-repression  he  had  practiced 
gave  way  before  the  flood  of  his  sociability.  It 
was  Joan's  amazing  beauty  as  she  stumbled 
wretchedly  into  the  circle  of  his  firelight,  her 
neck  drawn  up  to  its  full  length,  her  head  crowned 
high  with  soft,  black  masses,  her  lids  dropped 
under  the  weight  of  shyness,  vivid  fright  in  her 
distended  pupils,  scarlet  in  her  cheeks,  —  Joan's 
beauty  of  long,  strong  lines  draped  to  advantage 
for  the  first  time  in  soft  and  clinging  fabrics, — 
that  touched  the  spring  of  Prosper's  delighted 
egotism.  There  it  was  again,  the  ideal  audience, 
the  necessary  atmosphere,  the  beautiful,  gracious, 
intelligent  listener.  He  forgot  her  ignorance,  her 
utter  simplicity,  the  unplumbed  emptiness  of 
her  experience,  and  he  spread  out  his  colorful 
thoughts  before  her  in  colorful  words,  the  mental 
plumage  of  civilized  courtship. 

After  dinner,  now  sipping  from  the  small  coffee 
cup  in  his  hand,  now  setting  it  down  to  move  ex- 
citedly about  the  room,  he  talked  of  his  life,  his 


The  Training  of  a  Leopardess     10 1 

book,  his  plans.  He  told  anecdotes,  strange  ad- 
ventures; he  drew  his  own  inverted  morals;  he 
sketched  his  fantastic  opinions;  he  was  in  truth 
fascinating,  a  speaking  face,  a  lithe,  brilliant  pres- 
ence, a  voice  of  edged  persuasion.  He  turned 
witty  phrases.  Poor  Joan!  One  sentence  in  ten 
she  understood  and  answered  with  her  slow  smile 
and  her  quaint,  murmured,  "Well!"  His  elo- 
quence did  her  at  least  the  service  of  making 
her  forget  herself.  She  was  rather  crestfallen  be- 
cause he  had  not  complimented  her;  his  veiled 
look  of  appreciation,  this  coming  to  of  his  real 
self  was  too  subtle  a  flattery  for  her  perception. 
Nevertheless,  his  talk  pleased  her.  She  did  not 
want  to  disappoint  him,  so  she  drew  herself  up 
straight  in  the  big  red-lacquered  chair,  sipped  her 
coffee^in  dainty  imitation  of  him,  gave  him  the 
full,  deep  tribute  of  her  gaze,  asked  for  no  expla- 
nations and  let  the  astounding  statements  he 
made,  the  amazing  pictures  he  drew,  cut  their 
way  indelibly  into  her  most  sensitive  and  pre- 
serving memory. 

Afterwards,  at  night,  for  the  first  time  she  did 
not  weep  for  Pierre,  the  old  lost  Pierre  who  had 
so  changed  into  a  torturer,  but,  wakeful,  her 
brain  on  fire,  she  pondered  over  and  over  the 
things  she  had  just  heard,  feeling  after  their 


102  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

meaning,  laying  aside  for  future  enlightenment 
what  was  utterly  incomprehensible,  arguing  with 
herself  as  to  the  truth  of  half-comprehended 
speeches  —  an  ignorant  child  wrestling  with  a 
modern  philosophy,  tricked  out  in  motley  by  a 
ready  wit. 

There  were  more  personal  memories  that  gave 
her  a  flush  of  pleasure,  for  after  midnight,  as  she 
was  leaving  him,  he  came  near  to  her,  took  her.7 
hand  with  a  grateful  "Joan,  you've  done  so 
much  for  me  to-night,  you  Ve  made  me  happy," 
and  the  request,  "You  won't  put  your  hair  back 
to  the  old  way,  will  you?  You  will  wear  pretty 
things,  if  I  give  them  to  you,  won't  you?"  in  a 
beseeching  spoiled-boy's  voice,  very  amusing  and 
endearing  to  her. 

He  gave  her  the  "pretty  things,"  whole  quan- 
tities of  them,  fine  linen  to  be  made  up  into  under- 
wear, soft  white  and  colored  silks  and  crapes, 
which  Joan,  remembering  the  few  lessons  in 
dressmaking  she  had  had  from  Maud  Upper  and 
with  some  advice  from  Prosper,  made  up  not  too 
awkwardly,  accepting  the  mystery  of  them  as 
one  of  Prosper's  magic-makings.  And,  in  the 
meantime,  her  education  went  on.  Prosper  read 
aloud  to  her,  gave  her  books  to  read  to  herself, 
questioned  her,  tutored  her,  scolded  her  so 


The  Training  of  a  Leopardess     103 

fiercely  sometimes  that  Joan  would  mount  scar- 
let cheeks  and  open  angry  eyes.  One  day  she 
fairly  flung  her  book  from  her  and  ran  out  of  the 
room,  stamping  her  feet  and  shedding  tears.  But 
back  she  came  presently  for  more,  thirsting  for 
knowledge,  eager  to  meet  her  trainer  on  more 
equal  grounds,  to  be  able  to  answer  him  to  some 
purpose,  to  contradict  him,  to  stagger  ever  so 
slightly  the  self -assurance  of  his  superiority. 

And  Prosper  enjoyed  the  training  of  his  cap- 
tive leopardess,  though  he  sometimes  all  but 
melted  over  the  pathos  of  her  and  had  much  ado 
to  keep  his  hands  from  her  unconscious  young 
beauty. 

"You're  so  changed,  Joan,"  he  said  one  day 
abruptly.  "You've  grown  as  thin  as  a  reed, 
child;  I  can  see  every  bone,  and  your  eyes  — 
don't  you  ever  shut  them  any  more?" 

Joan,  prone  on  the  skin  before  the  fire,  elbows 
on  the  fur,  hands  to  her  temples,  face  bent  over 
a  book,  looked  up  impatiently. 

"I 'd  not  be  talkin'  now  if  I  was  you,  Mr.  Gael. 
You  had  ought  to  be  writin'  an'  I  'm  readin'. 
I  can't  talk  an'  read;  seems  when  I  do  a  thing 
I  just  hed  to  do  it!" 

Prosper  laughed  and  returned  chidden  to  his 
task,  but  he  could  n't  help  watching  her,  lying 


104  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

there  in  her  blue  frock  across  his  floor,  like  a  tall, 
thin  Magdalene,  all  her  rich  hair  fallen  wildly 
about  her  face.  She  was  such  a  child,  such  a 
child! 


CHAPTER  XIV 
JOAN  RUNS  AWAY 

IT  was  a  January  night  when  Joan,  her  rough 
head  almost  in  the  ashes,  had  read  "Isabella 
and  the  Pot  of  Basil"  by  the  light  of  flames.  It 
was  in  March,  a  gray,  still  afternoon,  when,  look- 
ing through  Prosper's  bookcase,  she  came  upon 
the  tale  again. 

Prosper  was  outdoors  cutting  a  tunnel,  freshly 
blocked  with  snow,  and  Joan,  having  finished  the 
"Life  of  Cellini,"  a  writer  she  loathed,  but  whose 
gorgeous  fabrications  her  master  had  forced  her 
to  read,  now  hurried  to  the  book- shelves  in 
search  of  something  more  to  her  taste.  She  had 
the  gay  air  of  a  holiday-seeker,  returned  "Cel- 
lini" with  a  smart  push,  and  kneeling,  ran  her 
finger  along  the  volumes,  pausing  on  a  binding 
of  bright  blue-and-gold.  It  was  the  color  that  had 
pleased  her  and  the  fat,  square  shape,  also  the 
look  of  fair  and  well-spaced  type.  She  took  the 
book  and  squatted  on  the  rug  happy  as  a  child 
with  a  new  toy  of  his  own  choosing. 

And  then  she  opened  her  volume  in  its  middle 
and  her  eye  looked  upon  familiar  lines  — 
"  So  the  two  brothers  and  their  murdered  man  — " 


106  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

Joan's  heart  fell  like  a  leaden  weight  and  the 
color  dropped  from  her  face.  In  an  instant  she 
was  back  in  Pierre's  room  and  the  white  night 
circled  her  in  great  silence  and  she  was  going 
over  the  story  of  her  love  and  Pierre's  —  their 
love,  their  beautiful,  grave,  simple  love  that  had 
so  filled  her  life.  And  now  where  was  she?  In  the 
house  of  the  man  who  had  killed  her  husband! 
She  had  been  waiting  for  Holliwell,  but  for  a  long 
while  now  she  had  forgotten  that.  Why  was  she 
still  here?  A  strange,  guilty  terror  came  with  the 
question.  She  looked  down  at  the  soft,  yellow 
cr£pe  of  the  dress  she  had  just  made  and  she 
looked  at  her  hands  lying  white  and  fine  and 
useless,  and  she  felt  for  the  high  comb  Prosper 
had  put  into  her  hair.  Then  she  stared  around  the 
gorgeous  little  room,  snug  from  the  world,  so 
secret  in  its  winter  canon.  She  heard  Wen  Ho's  in- 
cessant pattering  in  the  kitchen,  the  crunch  and 
thud  of  Prosper's  shoveling  outside.  It  was  sud- 
denly a  horrible  nightmare,  or  less  a  nightmare 
than  a  dream,  pleasant  in  the  dreaming,  but 
hideous  to  an  awakened  mind.  She  was  awake. 
Isabella's  story  had  thrown  her  mind,  so  abruptly 
dislocated,  back  to  a  time  before  the  change, 
back  to  her  old  normal  condition  of  a  young  wife. 
That  little  homestead  of  Pierre's!  Such  a  hunger 


Joan  Runs  Away  10T 

opened  in  her  soul  that  she  bent  her  head  and 
moaned.  She  could  think  of  nothing  now  but 
those  two  familiar,  bare,  clean  rooms  —  Pierre's 
gun,  Pierre's  rod,  her  own  coat  there  by  the  door, 
the  snowshoes.  There  was  no  place  in  her  mind 
for  the  later  tragedy.  She  had  gone  back  of  it. 
She  would  rather  be  alone  in  her  own  home, 
desolate  though  it  was,  than  anywhere  else  in  all 
the  homeless  world. 

And  what  could  prevent  her  from  going?  She 
laughed  aloud,  —  a  short,  defiant  laugh,  —  rip- 
pled to  her  feet,  and,  in  her  room,  took  off  Pros- 
per's  "pretty  things"  and  got  into  her  own  old 
clothes;  the  coarse  underwear,  the  heavy  stock- 
ings and  boots,  the  rough  skirt,  the  man's  shirt. 
How  loosely  they  all  hung!  How  thin  she  was! 
Now  into  her  coat,  her  woolen  cap  down  over  her 
ears,  her  gloves  —  she  was  ready,  her  heart  labor- 
ing like  an  exhausted  stag's,  her  knees  trembling, 
her  wrists  mysteriously  absent.  She  went  into  the 
hall,  found  her  snowshoes,  bent  to  tie  them  on, 
and,  straightening  up,  met  Prosper  who  had 
come  in  out  of  the  snow. 

He  was  glowing  from  exercise,  but  at  sight  of 
her  and  her  pale  excitement,  the  glow  left  him 
and  his  face  went  bleak  and  grim.  He  put  out 
his  hand  and  caught  her  by  the  arm  and  she 


108  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

backed  from  him  against  the  wall  —  this  before 
either  of  them  spoke. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Joan?" 

"I'm  a-goin'  home." 

He  let  go  of  her  arm.  "You  were  going  like 
this,  without  a  word  to  me?" 

"Mr.  Gael,"  she  panted,  "I  had  a  feelin'  like 
you  would  n't  'a'  let  me  go." 

He  turned,  threw  open  the  door,  and  stepped 
aside.  She  confronted  his  white  anger. 

"Mr.  Gael,  I  left  Pierre  dead.  I've  been  a- 
waitin'  for  Mr.  Holliwell  to  come.  I'm  strong 
now.  I  must  be  a-goin'  home."  Suddenly,  she 
blazed  out:  "You  killed  my  man.  What  hev  I 
to  do  with  you?" 

He  bowed.  Her  breast  labored  and  all  the  dis- 
tress of  her  soul,  troubled  by  an  instinctive, 
inarticulate  consciousness  of  evil,  wavered  in  her 
eyes.  Her  reason  already  accused  her  of  ingrati- 
tude and  treachery,  but  every  fiber  of  her  had 
suddenly  revolted.  She  was  all  for  liberty,  she 
must  have  it. 

He  was  wise,  made  no  attempt  to  hold  her,  let 
her  go;  but,  as  she  fled  under  the  firs,  her  webs 
sinking  deep  into  the  heavy,  uncrusted  snow,  he 
stood  and  watched  her  keenly.  He  had  not  failed 
to  notice  the  trembling  of  her  body,  the  quick 


Joan  Runs  Away  109 

lift  and  fall  of  her  breast,  the  rapid  flushing  and 
paling  of  her  face.  He  let  her  go. 

And  Joan  ran,  drawing  recklessly  on  the  de- 
pleted store  of  what  had  always  been  her  inex- 
haustible strength.  The  snow  was  deep  and  soft, 
heavy  with  moisture,  the  March  air  was  moist, 
too,  not  keen  with  frost,  and  the  green  firs  were 
softly  dark  against  an  even,  stone-colored  sky 
of  cloud.  To  Joan's  eyes,  so  long  imprisoned,  it 
was  all  astonishingly  beautiful,  clean  and  grave, 
part  of  the  old  life  back  to  which  she  was  run- 
ning. Down  the  canon  trail  she  floundered,  her 
short  skirt  gathering  a  weight  of  snow,  her  webs 
lifting  a  mass  of  it  at  every  tugging  step.  Her 
speed  perforce  slackened,  but  she  plodded  on, 
out  of  breath  and  in  a  sweat.  She  was  surprised 
at  the  weakness;  put  it  down  to  excitement.  "I 
was  afeered  he'd  make  me  stay,"  she  said,  and, 
"I've  got  to  go.  I've  got  to  go."  This  went  with 
her  like  a  beating  rhythm.  She  came  to  the  open- 
ing in  the  firs,  the  foot  of  the  steep  trail,  and  out 
there  stretched  the  valley,  blank  snow,  blank  sky, 
here  and  there  a  wooded  ridge,  then  a  range  of 
lower  hills,  blue,  snow-mottled;  not  a  roof,  not 
a  thread  of  smoke,  not  a  sound. 

"I'm  awful  far  away,"  Joan  whispered  to  her- 
self, and,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  doubted 


no  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

her  strength.  "I  don't  rightly  know  where  I  am." 
She  looked  back.  There  stood  a  high,  familiar 
peak,  but  so  were  the  outlines  of  these  moun- 
tains jumbled  and  changed  that  she  could  not 
tell  if  Prosper's  canon  lay  north  or  south  of 
Pierre's  homestead.  The  former  was  high  up  on 
the  foothills,  and  Pierre's  was  well  down,  above 
the  river.  From  where  she  stood,  there  was  no 
river-bed  in  sight.  She  tried  to  remember  the 
journey,  but  nothing  came  to  her  except  a  con- 
fused impression  of  following,  following,  follow- 
ing. Had  they  gone  toward  the  river  first  and 
then  turned  north  or  had  they  traveled  close  to 
the  base  of  the  giant  range?  The  ranger's  cabin 
where  they  had  spent  the  night,  surely  that  ought 
to  be  visible.  If  she  went  farther  out,  say  beyond 
the  wooded  spur  which  shut  the  mountain  coun- 
try from  her  sight,  perhaps  she  would  find  it.  ... 
She  braced  her  quivering  muscles  and  went  on. 
The  end  of  the  jutting  foothills  seemed  to  crawl 
forward  with  her.  She  plunged  into  drifts,  strug- 
gled up;  sometimes  the  snow-plane  seemed  to 
stand  up  like  a  wall  in  front  of  her,  the  far  hills 
lolling  like  a  dragon  along  its  top.  She  could  not 
keep  the  breath  in  her  lungs.  Often  she  sank 
down  and  rested;  when  things  grew  steady  she 
got  up  and  worked  on.  Each  time  she  rested,  she 


Joan  Runs  Away  ill 

crouched  longer;  each  time  made  slower  progress; 
and  always  the  goal  she  had  set  herself,  the  end 
of  that  jutting  hill,  thrust  itself  out,  nosed  for- 
ward, sliding  down  to  the  plain.  It  began  to 
darken,  but  Joan  thought  that  her  sight  was  fail- 
ing. The  enormous  efforts  she  was  making  took 
every  atom  of  her  will.  At  last  her  muscles  re- 
fused obedience,  her  laboring  heart  stopped.  She 
stood  a  moment,  swayed,  fell,  and  this  time  she 
made  no  effort  to  rise.  She  had  become  a  dark 
spot  on  the  snow,  a  lifeless  part  of  the  loneliness 
and  silence. 

Above  her,  where  the  sharp  peaks  touched  the 
clouds,  there  came  a  widening  rift  showing  a 
cold,  turquoise  clarity.  The  sun  was  just  setting 
and,  as  the  cloud-banks  lifted,  strong  shadows, 
intensely  blue,  pointed  across  the  plain  of  snow. 
A  small,  black,  energetic  figure  came  out  from 
among  the  firs  and  ran  forward  where  the  longest 
shadow  pointed.  It  looked  absurdly  tiny  and 
anxious;  futile,  in  its  pigmy  haste,  across  the 
exquisite  stillness.  Joan,  lying  so  still,  was  ac- 
quiescent; this  little  striving  thing  rebelled.  It 
came  forward  steadily,  following  Joan's  uneven 
tracks,  stamping  them  down  firmly  to  make  a 
solid  path,  and,  as  the  sun  dropped,  leaving 
an  immense  gleaming  depth  of  sky,  he  came 


112  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

down  and  bent  over  the  black  speck  that  was 
Joan.  .  .  . 

Prosper  took  her  by  the  shoulder  and  turned 
her  over  a  little  in  the  snow.  Joan  opened  her 
eyes  and  looked  at  him.  It  was  the  dumb  look  of 
a  beaten  dog. 

"Get  up,  child,"  he  said,  "and  come  home 
with  me." 

She  struggled  to  her  feet,  he  helping  her;  and 
silently,  just  as  a  savage  woman,  no  matter  what 
her  pain,  will  follow  her  man,  so  Joan  followed 
the  track  he  had  made  by  pressing  the  snow  down 
triply  over  her  former  steps.  "Can  you  do  it?" 
he  asked  once,  and  she  nodded.  She  was  pale, 
her  eyes  heavy,  but  she  was  glad  to  be  found, 
glad  to  be  saved.  He  saw  that,  and  he  saw  a  dawn- 
ing confusion  in  her  eyes.  At  the  end  he  drew  her 
arm  into  his,  and,  when  they  came  into  the  house, 
he  knelt  and  took  the  snowshoes  from  her  feet, 
she  drooping  against  the  wall.  He  put  a  hand  on 
each  of  her  shoulders  and  looked  reproach. 

"You  wanted  to  leave  me,  Joan?  You  wanted 
to  leave  me,  as  much  as  that?" 

She  shook  her  head  from  side  to  side,  then, 
drawing  away,  she  stumbled  past  him  into  the 
room,  dropped  to  the  bearskin  rug,  and  held  out 
her  hands  to  the  flames.  "It's  awful  good  to  be 


JOAN,  LYING  SO  STILL,  WAS  ACQUIESCENT 


Joan  Runs  Away  113 

back,"  she  said,  and  fell  to  sobbing.  "I  didn't 
think  you  'd  be  carin'  —  I  was  thinkin'  only  of 
old  things.  I  was  homesick  —  me  that  has  no 
home." 

Her  shaken  voice  was  so  wonderful  a  music 
that  he  stood  listening  with  sudden  tears  in  his 
eyes. 

"An'  I  can't  ferget  Pierre  nor  the  old  life, 
Mr.  Gael,  an'  when  I  think  't  was  you  that  killed 
him,  why,  it  breaks  my  heart.  Oh,  I  know  you 
hed  to  do  it.  I  saw.  An'  I  know  I  could  n't  'a' 
stayed  with  him  no  more.  What  he  did,  it  made 
me  hate  him  —  but  you  can't  be  thinkin'  how 
it  was  with  Pierre  an'  me  before  that  night.  We 
—  we  was  happy.  I  ust  to  live  with  my  father, 
Mr.  Gael,  an'  he  was  an  awful  man,  an'  there 
was  no  lovin'  between  us,  but  when  I  first  seen 
Pierre  lookin'  up  at  me,  I  first  knowed  what 
lovin'  might  be  like.  I  just  came  away  with  him 
because  he  asked  me.  He  put  his  hand  on  my  arm 
an'  said,  'Will  you  be  comin'  home  with  me, 
Joan  Carver? '  That  was  the  way  of  it.  Somethin' 
inside  of  me  said,  'Yes,'  fer  all  I  was  too  scairt  to 
do  anything  but  look  at  him  an'  shake  my  head. 
An'  the  next  mornin'  he  was  there  with  his  horses. 
Oh,  Mr.  Gael,  1  can't  ferget  him,  even  for  hatin'. 
That  brand  on  my  shoulder,  it's  all  healed,  but 


114  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

my  heart 's  so  hurled,  it 's  so  hurted.  An'  when  I 
come  to  thinkin'  of  how  kind  an'  comfortin'  you 
are  an'  what  you've  been  a-doin'  fer  me,  why, 
then,  at  the  same  time,  I  can't  help  but  thinkin' 
that  you  killed  my  Pierre.  You  killed  him.  Fer- 
give  me,  please;  I  would  love  you  if  I  could,  but 
somethin'  makes  me  shake  away  from  you  — 
because  Pierre's  dead." 

Again  she  wept,  exhausted,  broken-hearted 
weeping  it  was.  And  Prosper 's  face  was  drawn  by 
pity  of  her.  That  story  of  her  life  and  love,  it  was 
a  sort  of  saga,  something  as  moving  as  an  old 
ballad  most  beautifully  sung.  He  half-guessed 
then  that  she  had  genius;  at  least,  he  admitted 
that  it  was  something  more  than  just  her  beauty 
and  her  sorrow  that  so  greatly  stirred  him.  To 
speak  such  sentences  in  such  a  voice  —  that  was 
a  gift.  She  had  no  more  need  of  words  than  had 
a  symphony.  The  varied  and  vibrant  cadences 
of  her  voice  gave  every  delicate  shading  of  feel- 
ing, of  thought.  She  was  utterly  expressive.  All 
night,  after  he  had  seen  her  eat  and  sent  her  to 
her  bed,  the  phrases  of  her  music  kept  repeating 
themselves  in  his  ears.  "An'  so  I  first  knowed 
what  lovin'  might  be  like";  and,  "I  would  love 
you,  only  somethin'  makes  me  shake  away  from 
you  —  because  Pierre's  dead."  This  was  a  Joan 


Joan  Runs  Away  115 

he  had  not  yet  realized,  and  he  knew  that  after 
all  his  enchanted  leopardess  was  a  woman  and 
that  his  wooing  of  her  had  hardly  yet  begun.  So 
did  she  baffle  him  by  the  utter  directness  of  her 
heart.  There  was  so  little  of  a  barrier  against  him 
and  yet  —  there  was  so  much.  For  the  first  time, 
he  doubted  his  wizardry,  and,  at  that,  his  desire 
for  the  wild  girl's  love  stood  up  like  a  giant  and 
gripped  his  soul. 

Joan  slept  deeply  without  dreams;  she  had 
confessed  herself.  But  Prosper  was  as  restless 
and  troubled  as  a  youth.  She  had  not  made  her 
escape;  she  had  followed  him  home  with  humil- 
ity, with  confusion  in  her  eyes.  She  had  been 
glad  to  hold  out  her  hands  again  to  the  fire  on  his 
hearth.  And  yet  —  he  was  now  her  prisoner. 


CHAPTER  XV 

NERVES  AND  INTUITION 

MR.  GAEL,"  said  Joan  standing  before  him 
at  the  breakfast-table,  "I'm  a-goin'  to 
work." 

She  was  pale,  gaunt,  and  imperturbable.  He 
gave  her  a  quick  look,  one  that  turned  to  amuse- 
ment, for  Joan  was  really  as  appealing  to  his 
humor  as  a  child.  She  had  such  immense  gravity, 
such  intensity  over  her  one-syllable  statements 
of  fact.  She  announced  this  decision  and  sat 
down. 

"Woman's  work?"  he  asked  her,  smiling  quiz- 
zically. 

"No,  sir,"  with  her  own  rare  smile;  "I  ain't 
rightly  fitted  for  that." 

"Certainly  not  in  those  clothes,"  he  murmured 
crossly,  for  she  was  dressed  again  in  her  own 
things. 

"I'm  a-goin'  to  do  man's  work.  I'm  a-goin'  to 
shovel  snow  an'  help  fetch  wood  an'  kerry  in 
water.  You  tell  your  Chinese  man,  please." 

"And  you're  not  going  to  read  or  study  any 
more?" 


Nerves  and  Intuition  117 

"Yes,  sir.  I  like  that.  If  you  still  want  to  teach 
me,  Mr.  Gael.  But  I  'm  a-goin'  —  I  'm  going  — 
to  get  some  action.  I'll  just  die  if  I  don't.  Why, 
I'm  so  poor  I  can't  hardly  lift  a  broom.  I  don't 
know  why  I  'm  so  miserably  poor,  Mr.  Gael." 

She  twisted  her  brows  anxiously. 

"You've  had  a  nervous  breakdown." 

"A.  what?" 

"A  nervous  breakdown." 

He  lit  his  cigarette  and  watched  her  in  his 
usual  lazy,  smoke-veiled  manner,  but  she  might 
have  noticed  the  shaken  fabric  of  his  self-assur- 
ance. 

"Say,  now,"  said  Joan,  "what's  that  the  name 
for?" 

"There's  a  book  about  it  over  there  —  third 
volume  on  the  top  shelf  —  look  up  your  case." 

With  an  air  of  profound  alarm,  she  went  over 
and  took  it  out. 

"There's  books  about  everything,  ain't  there? 
—  is  n't  there,  —  Mr.  Gael?  Why,  there's  books 
about  lovin'  an'  about  sickness  an'  about  cattle 
an'  what-not,  an'  about  women  an'  children  — " 
She  was  shirking  the  knowledge  of  her  "case," 
but  at  last  she  pressed  her  lips  together  and 
opened  the  book.  She  fell  to  reading,  growing 
anxiety  possessed  her  face,  she  sat  down  on  the 


118  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

nearest  chair,  she  turned  page  after  page.  Sud- 
denly she  gave  him  a  look  of  anger. 

"I  ain't  none  of  this,  Mr.  Gael,"  she  said, 
smote  the  page,  rose  with  dignity,  and  returned 
the  book. 

He  laughed  so  long  and  heartily  that  she  was 
at  last  forced  to  join  him.  "You  was  —  you  were 
—  jobbin'  me,  wasn't  you?"  she  said,  sighing 
relief.  "Did  you  know  what  that  volume  said? 
It  said  like  this  —  I'll  read  you  about  it  — "  She 
took  the  volume,  found  the  place  and  read  in  a 
low  tone  of  horror,  he  helping  her  with  the  hard 
words:  "  'One  of  the  most  frequent  forms  of  pho- 
bia, common  in  cases  of  psychic  neurasthenia,  is 
agrophobia  in  which  patients  the  moment  they 
come  into  an  open  space  are  oppressed  by  an 
exaggerated  feeling  of  anxiety.  They  may  break 
into  a  profuse  perspiration  and  assert  that  they 
feel  as  if  chained  to  the  ground  .  .  .'  And  here, 
listen  to  this,  'batophobia,  the  fear  that  high 
things  will  fall,  atrophobia,  fear  i  thunder  and 
lightning,  pantophobia,  the  fear  of  every  thing 
and  every  one'  .  .  .  Well,  now,  ain't  that  too 
awful?  An'  you  mean  folks  really  get  that 
way?" 

Their  talk  was  for  some  time  of  nervous  dis- 
eases, Joan's  horror  increasing. 


Nerves  and  Intuition  119 

"Well,  sir,"  said  she,  "lead  me  out  an'  shoot 
me  if  I  get  anyways  like  that!  I  believe  it's 
caused  by  all  that  queer  dressin'  an'  what-not. 
I  feel  like  somethin'  real  to-day  in  this  shirt  an' 
all,  an'  when  I  get  through  some  work  I  '11  feel  a 
whole  lot  better.  Don't  you  say  I  'm  one  of  those 
nervous  breakdowns  again,  though,  will  you?" 
she  pleaded. 

"No,  I  won't,  Joan.  But  don't  make  one  of 
me,  will  you?" 

"How's  that?" 

"By  wearing  those  clothes  all  day  and  half  the 
night.  If  you  expect  me  to  teach  you,  you  '11  have 
to  do  something  for  me,  to  make  up  for  running 
away.  You  might  put  on  pretty  things  for  dinner, 
don't  you  think?  Your  nervous  system  could 
stand  that?" 

"My  nervous  system,"  drawled  Joan,  and 
added  startlingly,  for  she  did  not  often  swear, 
"God!"  It  was  an  oath  of  scorn,  and  again 
Prosper  laughed. 

But  he  heard  with  a  sort  of  terror  the  sound  of 
her  "man's  work"  to  which  she  energetically 
applied  herself.  It  meant  the  return  of  her 
strength,  of  her  independence.  It  meant  the 
shortening  of  her  captivity.  Before  long  spring 
would  rush  up  the  canon  in  a  wave  of  melting 


120  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

snow,  crested  with  dazzling  green,  and  the  valley 
would  lie  open  to  Joan.  She  would  go  unless  — 
had  he  really  failed  so  utterly  to  touch  her  heart? 
Was  she  without  passion,  this  woman  with  the 
deep,  savage  eyes,  the  lips,  so  sensuous  and  pure, 
the  body  so  magnificently  made  for  living?  She 
was  not  defended  by  any  training,  she  had  no 
moral  standards,  no  prejudices,  none  of  the 
"ideals."  She  was  completely  open  to  approach, 
a  savage.  If  he  failed,  it  was  a  personal  failure. 
Perhaps  he  had  been  too  subtle,  too  restrained. 
She  did  not  yet  know,  perhaps,  what  he  desired 
of  her.  But  he  was  afraid  of  rousing  her  hatred, 
which  would  be  fully  as  simple  and  as  savage  as 
her  love.  That  evening,  after  she  had  dressed  to 
please  him,  and  sat  in  her  chair,  tired,  but  with 
the  beautiful,  clean  look  of  outdoor  weariness  on 
her  face,  and  tried,  battling  with  drowsiness,  to 
give  her  mind  to  his  reading  and  his  talk,  he  was 
overmastered  by  his  longing  and  came  to  her  and 
knelt  down,  drawing  down  her  hands  to  him, 
pressing  his  forehead  on  them. 

For  a  moment  she  was  stiff  and  still,  then, 
"What  is  it,  Mr.  Gael?"  she  asked  in  a  fright- 
ened half -voice. 

He  felt,  through  her  body,  the  slight  recoil  of 
spirit,  and  drew  away,  and  arose  to  his  feet. 


Nerves  and  Intuition 

"You're  angry?" 

He  laughed. 

"Oh,  no.  I'm  not  angry;  why  should  I  be? 
I'm  a  superman.  I'm  made  —  let's  say  — 
of  alabaster.  Women  with  great  eyes  and  won- 
derful voices  and  the  beauty  of  broad-browed 
nymphs  walking  gravely  down  under  forest 
arches,  such  women  give  me  only  a  great,  great 
longing  to  read  aloud  very  slowly  and  carefully  a 
*  Child's  History  of  the  English  Race'!"  He  took 
the  book,  tossed  it  across  the  room,  then  stood, 
ashamed  and  defiant,  laughing  a  little,  a  boy  in 
disgrace. 

Joan  looked  at  him  in  profound  bewilderment 
and  dawning  distress. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "you  are  angry  with  me. 
You  always  are  when  you  talk  that  queer  way. 
Won't  you  please  explain  it  to  me,  Mr.  Gael?" 

"No!"  said  he  sharply.  "I  won't."  And  he 
added  after  a  moment,  "You'd  better  go  to  bed. 
You're  sleepy  and  as  stupid  as  an  owl." 

"Oh!" 

"  Yes.  And  you've  destroyed  what  little  super- 
stitious belief  I  had  left  concerning  something 
they  tell  little  ignorant  boys  about  a  woman's 
intuition.  You  have  n't  got  a  bit.  You  're  stupid 
and  I  'm  tired  of  you  —  No,  Joan,  I  'm  not. 


122  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

Don't  mind  me.  I'm  only  in  fun.  Please!  Damn! 
I've  hurt  your  feelings." 

Her  lips  were  quivering,  her  eyes  full.  "I  try 
so  awful  hard,"  she  said.  It  was  a  lovely,  broken 
trail  of  music. 

He  bent  over  her  and  patted  her  shoulder. 
"Dear  child!  Joan,  I  won't  be  so  disagreeable 
again.  Only,  don't  you  ever  think  of  me?" 

"Yes,  yes;  all  the  while  I'm  thinking  of  you. 
I  wisht  I  could  do  more  for  you.  Why  do  I  make 
you  so  angry?  I  know  I'm  awful  —  awfully  stu- 
pid and  ignorant.  I  —  I  must  drive  you  most 
crazy,  but  truly"  — here  she  turned  quickly  in 
his  arm  and  put  her  hands  about  his  neck  and 
laid  her  cheek  against  his  shoulder-  "truly, 
Mr.  Gael,  I  'm  awful  fond  of  you."  Then  she  drew 
quickly  away,  quivered  back  into  the  other  cor- 
ner of  her  great  chair,  put  her  face  to  her  hands. 
"Only  —  I  can't  help  seein'  —  Pierre." 

Just  her  tone  showed  him  that  still  and  ghastly 
youth,  and  again  he  saw  the  brown  hand  that 
moved.  He  had  stood  between  her  and  that  sight. 
The  man  ought  to  have  died.  He  did  not  deserve 
his  life  nor  this  love  of  hers.  Even  though  he  had 
failed  to  kill  the  man,  he  would  not  fail  to  kill  her 
love  for  him,  sooner  or  later,  thought  Prosper. 
If  only  the  hateful  spring  would  give  him  time. 


Nerves  and  Intuition  123 

He  must  move  her  from  her  memory.  She  had 
put  her  hands  about  his  neck,  she  had  laid  her 
head  against  his  shoulder,  and,  if  it  had  been  the 
action  of  a  child,  then  she  would  not  have  started 
from  him  with  that  sharp  memory  of  Pierre. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  TALL  CHILD 

fT^HERE  were  times,  even  now,  when  Pros- 
-*•  per  tried  to  argue  himself  hack  into  sardonic 
self-possession.  "Pooh!"  said  his  brain,  "you 
were  beside  yourself  over  a  loss  and  then  you 
were  shut  in  for  months  of  winter  alone  with  this 
mountain  girl,  so  naturally  you  are  off  your 
balance."  He  would  school  himself  while  Joan 
shoveled  outdoors.  He  would  try  to  see  her  with 
critical,  clear  eyes  when  she  strode  in.  But  one 
look  at  her  and  he  was  bemused  again.  For  now 
she  was  at  a  great  height  of  beauty,  vivid  with 
growing  strength  and  purpose,  her  lips  calm  and 
scarlet,  her  eyes  bright  and  hopeful.  In  fact, 
Joan  had  made  her  plans.  She  would  wait  till 
spring,  partly  to  get  back  her  full  strength,  partly 
to  make  further  progress  in  her  studies,  but 
mostly  in  order  not  to  hurt  this  hospitable 
Prosper  Gael.  The  naivete  of  her  gratitude,  of 
her  delicate  consideration  for  his  feelings,  which 
continually  triumphed  over  an  instinctive  fear, 
would  have  filled  him  with  amusement,  perhaps 
with  compunction,  had  he  been  capable  of  under- 


The  Tall  Child  125 

standing  them.  She  was  truly  sorry  that  she  had 
hurt  him  by  running  away.  She  told  herself  she 
would  not  do  that  again.  In  the  spring  she  would 
make  him  a  speech  of  thankfulness  and  of  fare- 
well, and  then  she  would  tramp  back  to  Pierre's 
homestead  and  win  and  hold  Pierre's  land.  As 
yet,  you  see,  Prosper  entered  very  little  into  her 
conscious  life.  Somewhere,  far  down  in  her,  there 
was  a  disturbance,  a  growing  doubt,  a  something 
vague  and  troubling.  .  .  .  Joan  had  not  learnt 
to  probe  her  own  heart.  A  sensation  was  not,  or 
it  was.  She  was  puzzled  by  the  feeling  Prosper 
was  beginning  to  cause  her,  a  feeling  of  miserable 
complexity;  but  she  was  not  yet  mentally 
equipped  for  the  confronting  of  complexity.  It 
was  necessary  for  an  emotion  to  rush  at  Joan 
and  throw  down,  as  it  were,  her  heart  before 
she  recognized  it;  even  then  she  might  not  give 
it  a  name.  She  would  act,  however,  and  with 
violence. 

So  now  she  planned  and  worked  and  grew 
beautiful  with  work  and  planning,  while  Prosper 
curbed  his  passion  and  worked,  too,  and  his 
instruments  were  delicate  and  deadly  and  his 
plans  made  no  account  of  hers.  Every  word  he 
read  to  her,  every  note  he  played  for  her,  had  its 
calculated  effect.  He  worked  on  her  subconscious- 


126  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

ness,  undermining  her  path,  and  at  nights  and  in 
her  sleep  she  grew  aware  of  him. 

But  even  now,  in  his  cool  and  passionate  heart 
there  were  moments  of  reaction,  one  at  last  that 
came  near  to  wrecking  his  purpose. 

"Your  clothes  are  about  done  for,  Joan," 
Prosper  laughed  one  morning,  watching  her  belt 
in  her  tattered  shirt;  "you'll  soon  look  like 
Cophetua's  beggar  maid." 

"I'm  not  quite  barefoot  yet."  She  held  up  a 
cracked  boot. 

"Joan — "  He  hesitated  an  instant,  then  got 
up  from  his  desk,  walked  to  a  window,  and 
looked  out  at  the  bright  morning.  The  lake  was 
ruffled  with  wind,  the  firs  tossed,  there  were 
patches  of"  brown-needled  earth  under  his  win- 
dow; his  eyes  were  startled  by  a  strip  of  green 
where  tiny  yellow  flowers  trod  on  the  very  edge 
of  the  melting  drift.  The  window  was  open  to 
soft,  tingling  air  that  smelt  of  snow  and  of  sun, 
of  pines,  of  growing  grass,  of  sap,  of  little  leaf- 
buds.  The  birds  were  in  loud  chorus.  For  several 
minutes  Prosper  stared  and  listened. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Gael?"  asked  Joan  pa- 
tiently. 

He  started.  "Oh,"  he  said  without  looking  at 
her  again,  "I  was  going  to  tell  you  that  there  are 


The  Tall  Child  127 

a  skirt  and  a  sort  of  coat  in  —  in  a  closet  in  the 
hall.  Do  you  want  to  use  them?" 

She  went  out  to  look.  In  five  minutes  —  he 
had  gone  back  to  his  work  at  the  desk  —  he  heard 
her  laugh,  and,  still  laughing,  she  opened  the 
door  again. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Gael,  were  you  really  thinking  that 
I  could  wear  these?  Look." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her.  She  had  crowded 
her  strong,  lithe  frame  into  a  brown  tweed  suit, 
a  world  too  narrow  for  her,  and  she  was  laughing 
heartily  at  herself  and  had  come  in  to  show  him 
the  misfit. 

"These  things,  Mr.  Gael,"  she  said,  —  "they 
must  have  been  made  for  a  tall  child." 

Prosper  had  too  far  tempted  his  pain,  and  in 
her  vivid  phrase  it  came  to  life  before  him.  She 
had  painted  a  startling  picture  and  he  had 'seen 
that  suit,  so  small  and  trim,  before. 

Joan  saw  his  face  grow  white,  his  eyes  stared 
through  her.  He  drew  a  quick  breath  and  winced 
away  from  her,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands.  A 
moment  later  he  was  weeping  convulsively,  with 
violence,  his  head  down  between  his  hands.  Joan 
started  toward  him,  but  he  made  a  wicked  and 
repellent  gesture.  She  fled  into  her  room  and  sat, 
bewildered,  on  her  bed. 


128  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

All  at  once  the  question  came  to  her:  for  whom 
had  the  delicate  fabrics  been  bought,  for  whom 
had  this  suit  been  made?  "It  was  his  wife  and 
she  is  dead,"  thought  Joan,  and  very  pitifully 
she  took  off  the  suit,  laid  it  and  the  other  things 
away,  and  sitting  by  her  window  rested  her  chin 
in  her  hands  and  stared  out  through  the  blue 
pines.  Tears  ran  down  her  face  because  she  was 
so  sorry  for  Prosper's  pain.  And  again,  thought 
Joan,  she  had  caused  it,  she  who  owed  him  every- 
thing. Yes,  she  was  deeply  sorry  for  Prosper, 
deeply;  her  whole  heart  was  stirred.  For  the  first 
time  she  had  a  longing  to  comfort  him  with  her 
hands. 

For  all  that  day  Prosper  fled  the  house  and 
went  across  the  country,  now  fording  a  flood  of 
melted  snow,  now  floundering  through  a  drift, 
now  walking  on  springy  sod,  unaware  of  the  soft 
spring,  conscious  only  of  a  sort  of  fire  in  his 
breast.  He  suffered  and  he  resented  his  suffering, 
and  he  would  have  killed  his  heart  if,  by  so  doing, 
he  could  have  given  it  peace.  And  all  day  he  did 
not  once  think  of  Joan,  but  only  of  the  "tall 
child"  for  whom  the  gay  canon  refuge  had  been 
built,  but  who  had  never  set  her  slim  foot  upon 
its  threshold.  Sunset  found  him  miles  away  in 


The  Tall  Child  129 

the  foothills  of  a  low,  many-folded  range  across 
the  plain.  He  was  dog  tired,  so  that  for  very  ex- 
haustion his  brain  had  stopped  its  tormenting 
work.  He  lit  a  fire  and  sat  by  it,  huddled  in  his 
coat,  smoking,  dozing,  not  able  really  to  sleep 
for  cold  and  hunger.  The  bright  stars,  flung  all 
about  the  sky,  mildly  regarded  him.  Coyotes 
mourned  their  loneliness  and  hunger  near  and 
far,  and  once,  in  the  broken  woods  above  him,  a 
mountain  lion  gave  its  blood-curdling  scream. 
Prosper  hated  the  night  and  its  beautiful  desola- 
tion, he  hated  the  God  that  had  made  this  land. 
He  cursed  the  dawn  when  it  came  delicately, 
spreading  a  green  arc  of  radiance  across  the  east. 
And  then,  as  he  arose  stiffly,  stamped  out  his 
fire,  and  started  slowly  on  his  way  back,  he  was 
conscious  of  a  passionate  homesickness,  not  for 
the  old  life  he  had  lost,  but  for  his  cabin,  his 
bright  hearth,  his  shut-in  solitude,  his  Joan. 
Very  dear  and  real  and  human  she  was,  and  her 
laughter  had  been  sweet.  He  had  shocked  it  to 
silence,  he  had  repulsed  her  comforting  hands. 
She  had  been  so  innocent  of  any  desire  to  hurt 
him.  He  could  not  imagine  her  ever  hurting  any 
one,  this  broad-browed  Joan.  She  was  so  kind. 
And  now  she  must  be  anxious  about  him.  She 
would  have  sat  up  by  the  fire  all  night.  .  .  .  His 


130  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

eagerness  for  her  slighted  comfort  gave  his  lag- 
ging steps  a  certain  vigor,  the  long  walk  back 
seemed  very  long,  indeed.  Noon  was  hot,  but  he 
found  water  and  by  sundown  he  came  to  the 
canon  trail.  He  wanted  Joan  as  badly  now  as  a 
hurt  child  wants  its  mother.  He  came,  haggard 
and  breathless,  to  the  door,  called  "Joan,"  came 
into  the  warm  little  room  and  found  it  empty. 
Wen  Ho,  to  be  sure,  pattered  to  meet  him. 

"Mister  Gael  been  gone  a  long  tune,  velly 
long,  all  night.  Wen  Ho,  he  fix  bed,  fix  breakfast 
—  oh,  the  lady?  She  gone  out  yestiddy,  not  come 
back.  She  leave  a  letter  for  him,  there  on  the 
table." 

Prosper  took  it,  waved  Wen  Ho  out,  and, 
dropping  into  the  big  chair,  opened  the  paper. 
There  was  Joan's  big  handwriting,  that  he  him- 
self had  taught  her.  Before  she  could  only  sign 
her  name. 

Mister  Gael,  dere  frend,  — 

You  have  ben  too  good  to  me  an  it  has  ben  too 
hard  for  you  to  keep  me  when  you  were  all  the  wile 
amissin  her  an  it  hurts  me  to  think  of  how  it  must 
have  ben  terrible  hard  for  you  all  this  winter  to  see 
me  where  you  had  ben  ust  to  seein  her  an  me  wearin 
her  pretty  things  all  the  wile.  Now  dere  frend  this 
must  not  be  no  more.  I  will  not  stay  to  trouble  you. 
You  have  ben  awful  free-hearted.  When  you  come 
back  from  your  wanderin  an  tryin  to  get  over  your 


The  Tall  Child  131 

bein  so  unhappy  you  will  find  your  house  quiet  an 
peaceful  an  you  will  not  be  hurt  by  me  no  more.  I  am 
not  able  to  say  all  I  am  feelin  about  your  goodness  an 
I  hev  not  always  ben  as  kind  to  you  in  my  thoughts 
an  axions  but  that  has  ben  my  own  fault  not  yours. 
I  want  you  to  beleave  this,  Mister  Gael.  I  am  goin 
back  to  Pierre's  ranch  to  work  on  his  land  an  some 
day  I  will  be  hopin  to  see  you  come  ridin  in  an  I  will 
keep  on  learnin  as  well  as  I  can  an  mebbe  you  will 
not  be  ashamed  of  me.  I  feel  awful  bad  to  go  but  I 
would  feel  more  bad  to  stay  when  it  must  hurt  you  so. 
Respectably 

JOAN 

There  were  blistered  spots  above  that  pathetic, 
mistaken  signature.  The  poor  girl  had  meant  to 
sign  herself  "Respectfully,"  and  somehow  that 
half-broke  his  heart. 

He  drank  the  strong  coffee  Wen  Ho  brought 
for  him,  two  great  cups  of  it,  and  he  ate  a  piece 
of  broiled  elk  meat.  Then  he  went  out  again  and 
walked  rapidly  down  the  trail.  It  was  not  yet 
dark;  the  world  was  in  a  soft  glow  of  rose  and 
violet,  opalescent  lights.  The  birds  were  singing 
in  a  hundred  chantries.  And  there,  through  the 
firs,  a  sight  to  stop  his  heart,  Joan  came  walking 
toward  him,  graceful,  free,  a  swinging  figure, 
bareheaded,  her  rags  girded  beautifully  about 
her.  And  up  and  up  to  him  she  came  soundlessly 
over  the  pine  needles  and  through  the  wet  snow- 


132  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

patches,  looking  at  him  steadfastly  and  tenderly, 
without  a  smile.  She  came  and  stood  before  him, 
still  without  dropping  her  sad,  grave  look. 

"Mr.  Gael,"  she  said,  "I  hev  come  back.  I  got 
out  yonder  an'  —  her  breast  heaved  and  a  sort 
of  terror  came  into  her  eyes  —  "an'  the  world 
was  awful  lonely.  There  ain't  a  creature  out 
yonder  to  care  fer  me,fer  me  to  care  fer.  It  seemed 
like  as  if  it  was  all  dead.  I  could  n't  abear  it." 

She  put  out  her  hand  wistfully  asking  for  pity, 
but  he  fell  upon  his  knees  and  wrapped  his  hun- 
gry arms  about  her.  "Joan,"  he  sobbed,  "Joan! 
Don't  leave  me.  Don't  —  I  couldn't  bear  it!" 
He  looked  up  at  her,  his  worn  face  wet  with  tears. 
"Don't  leave  me,  Joan!  I  want  you.  Don't  you 
understand?" 

Her  deep  gray  eyes  filled  slowly  with  light,  she 
put  a  hand  on  either  side  of  his  face  and  bent  her 
lips  to  his.  "I  never  thought  you'd  be  wantin' 
me,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XTH 
CONCERNING  MARRIAGE 

AND  it  was  spring-time;  these  prisoners  of 
frost  were  beautifully  sensitive.  They,  too, 
with  the  lake  and  the  aspens  and  the  earth,  the 
seeds  and  the  beasts,  had  suffered  the  season  of 
interment.  In  such  fashion  Nature  makes  possi- 
ble the  fresh  undertakings  of  last  summer's  reck- 
less prodigals;  she  drives  them  into  her  mock 
tomb  and  freezes  their  hearts  —  it  is  a  little  rest 
of  death  —  so  that  they  wake  like  turbulent 
bacchantes  drunk  with  sleep  and  with  forgetful- 
ness.  Love,  spring  says,  is  an  eternal  fact,  wel- 
come its  new  manifestations.  Remating  bluebirds 
built  their  nests  near  Joan's  window;  they  were 
not  troubled  by  sad  recollections  of  last  year's 
nests  nor  the  young  birds  that  flew  away.  It  was 
another  life,  a  resurrection.  If  they  remembered 
at  all,  they  remembered  only  the  impulses  of 
pleasure;  they  had  somewhere  before  learned  how 
to  love,  how  to  build;  the  past  summers  had  given 
practice  to  their  singing  little  throats  and  to  their 
rapid  wings.  No  ghosts  forbade  happiness  and  no 
God  —  man-voiced  —  saying,  because  he  knew 


134  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

the  ugly  human  aftermaths,  hard  sayings  of  "Be 
ye  perfect." 

What  counsel  was  theirs  for  Joan  and  what 
had  her  human  mentor  taught  her?  He  had 
taught  her  in  one  form  or  another  the  beauty  of 
passion  and  its  eternal  sinlessness,  for  that  was 
his  sincere  belief.  By  music  he  had  taught  her, 
by  musical  speech,  by  the  preaching  of  heathen 
sage  and  the  wit  of  modern  arguers.  He  had 
given  her  all  the  moral  schooling  she  had  ever 
had  and  its  golden  rule  was,  "Be  ye  beautiful 
and  generous."  Joan  was  both  beautiful  and 
made  for  giving,  "free-hearted"  as  she  might 
herself  have  said,  Friday's  child  as  the  old  rhyme 
has  it,  —  and  to  cry  out  to  her  with  love,  saying, 
"I  want  you,  Joan,"  was  just,  sooner  or  later,  to 
see  her  turn  and  bend  her  head  and  hold  out  her 
arms.  Prosper  had  the  reward  of  patience;  his 
wild  leopardess  was  tamed  to  his  hand  and  her 
sweetness  made  him  tender  and  very  merciful. 

Their  gay,  little  house  stood  open  all  day  while 
they  explored  the  mountains  and  plunged  into 
the  lake,  choosing  the  hot  hour  of  noon.  Joan 
made  herself  mistress  of  the  house  and  did  her 
woman's  work  at  last  of  tidying  and  beautifying 
and  decking  corners  with  gorgeous  branches  of 
blossoms  while  Prosper  worked  at  his  desk.  He 


Concerning  Marriage  135 

was  happy;  the  reality  of  Joan's  presence  had 
laid  his  ghost  just  as  the  reality  of  his  had  laid 
hers.  His  work  went  on  magically  and  added  the 
glow  of  successful  creation  to  the  glow  of  satisfied 
desire.  And  his  sin  of  deceit  troubled  him  very 
little,  for  he  had  worked  out  that  problem  and 
had  decided  that  Pierre,  dead  or  alive,  was  un- 
worthy of  this  mate. 

But  sometimes  in  her  sleep  Joan  would  start 
and  moan  feeling  the  touch  of  the  white-hot  iron 
on  her  shoulder.  Her  hatred  of  Pierre's  cruelty, 
her  resolution  to  be  done  with  him  forever,  must 
have  vividly  renewed  itself  in  those  dreams,  for 
she  would  cling  to  Prosper  like  a  frightened  child, 
and  wake,  trembling,  happy  to  find  herself  safe 
in  his  arms. 

So  they  lived  their  spring.  Wen  Ho,  the  silent 
and  inscrutable,  went  out  of  the  valley  for  pro- 
visions, and  during  his  absence  Joan  queened  it 
in  the  kitchen.  She  was  learning  to  laugh,  to  see 
the  absurd,  delightful  twists  of  daily  living,  to 
mock  Prosper's  oddities  as  he  mocked  hers.  She 
was  learning  to  be  a  comrade  and  she  was  learn- 
ing better  speech  and  more  exquisite  ways.  It 
was  inevitable  that  she  should  learn.  Prosper,  in 
these  days,  spent  his  whole  soul  upon  her,  fed 
her  with  music  and  delight,  and  he  trained  her  to 


136  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

sing  her  sagas  so  that  every  day  her  voice  gained 
in  power  and  flexible  sweetness.  She  would  sing, 
since  he  told  her  to,  her  voice  beating  its  wings 
against  the  walls  of  the  house  or  ringing  down  the 
canon  in  un trammeled  flight.  Prosper  was  lost 
in  wonder  of  her,  in  a  passionate  admiration  for 
his  own  handiwork.  He  was  making,  here  in  this 
God-forsaken  solitude,  a  thing  of  marvel;  what 
he  was  making  surely  justified  the  means.  Joan's 
laughable  simplicity  and  directness  were  the 
same;  they  were  part  of  her  essence;  no  civilizing 
could  confuse  or  disturb  them;  but  she  changed, 
her  brain  grew,  it  absorbed  material,  it  attempted 
adventures.  Nowadays  Joan  sometimes  argued, 
and  this  filled  Prosper  with  delight,  so  quaint 
and  logical  she  was  and  so  skillful. 

They  were  reading  out  under  the  firs  by  the 
green  lip  of  the  lake,  when  Wen  Ho  led  his  pack- 
horse  up  the  trail.  He  had  been  gone  a  month, 
for  Prosper  had  sent  him  out  of  the  valley  to  a 
distant  town  for  his  supplies.  He  did  n't  want 
the  little  frontier  place  to  prick  up  its  ears.  Wen 
Ho  had  ridden  by  a  secret  trail  back  over  the 
range;  he  had  not  passed  even  the  ranger  sta- 
tion on  his  way.  He  called  out,  and,  in  the 
midst  of  a  sentence  Joan  was  reading,  Prosper 
started  up. 


Concerning  Marriage  137 

Joan  looked  at  him  smiling.  "  You  're  as  easily 
turned  away  from  learning  as  a  boy,"  she  began, 
and  faltered  when  she  saw  his  face.  It  was  turned 
eagerly  toward  the  climbing  horses,  toward  the 
pack,  and  it  was  sharp  and  keen  with  detached 
interest,  an  excitement  that  had  nothing,  nothing 
in  the  world  to  do  with  her. 

It  was  the  great  bundle  of  Prosper's  mail  that 
first  brought  home  to  Joan  the  awareness  of  an 
outside  world.  She  knew  that  Prosper  was  a 
traveled  and  widely  experienced  man,  but  she 
had  not  fancied  him  held  to  this  world  by  human 
attachments.  Concerning  the  "tall  child"  she 
had  not  put  a  question  and  she  still  believed  her 
to  have  been  Prosper's  wife.  But  when,  leaving 
her  place  under  the  tree,  she  came  into  the  house 
and  found  Prosper  feverishly  slitting  open  envel- 
ope after  envelope,  with  a  pile  of  papers  and  mag- 
azines, ankle-high,  beside  him  on  the  floor,  she 
stood  aghast. 

"What  a  lot  of  people  must  have  been  writing 
to  you,  Prosper!" 

He  did  not  hear  her.  He  was  greedy  of  eye  and 
finger-tips,  searching  written  sheet  after  sheet. 
He  was  flushed  along  the  cheek-bones  and  a  little 
pale  about  the  lips.  Joan  stood  there,  her  hands 
hanging,  her  head  bent,  staring  up  and  out  at 


138  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

him  from  under  her  brows.  She  looked,  in  this 
attitude,  rather  dangerous. 

Prosper  sped  through  his  mail,  made  an  odd 
gesture  of  desperation,  sat  still  a  moment  star- 
ing, his  brilliant,  green-gray  eyes  gone  dull  and 
blank,  then  he  gave  himself  a  shuddery  shake, 
pulled  a  small  parcel  from  under  the  papers,  and 
held  it  out  to  Joan.  He  smiled. 

"Something  for  you,  leopardess,"  he  said  — 
he  had  told  her  his  first  impression  of  her. 

She  took  the  box  haughtily  and  walked  with 
it  over  to  her  chair.  But  he  came  and  kissed  her. 

"Jealous  of  my  mail?  You  foolish  child.  What 
a  girl-thing  you  are!  It  does  n't  matter,  does  it, 
how  we  train  you  or  leave  you  untrained,  you  're 
all  alike,  you  women,  under  your  skins.  Open 
your  box  and  thank  me  prettily,  and  leave  mat- 
ters you  don't  understand  alone.  That 's  the  way 
to  talk,  is  n't  it?" 

She  flushed  and  smiled  rather  doubtfully,  but, 
at  sight  of  his  gift,  she  forgot  everything  else  for 
a  moment.  It  was  a  collar  of  topaz  and  emerald 
set  in  heavy  silver.  She  was  awe-struck  by  its 
beauty,  and  went,  after  he  had  fastened  it  for 
her,  to  stand  a  long  while  before  the  glass  looking 
at  it.  She  wore  her  yellow  dress  cut  into  a  V  at 
the  neck  and  the  jewels  rested  beautifully  at  the 


Concerning  Marriage  139 

base  of  her  long,  round  throat,  faintly  brown  like 
her  face  up  to  the  brow.  The  yellow  and  the  green 
brought  out  all  the  value  of  her  grave,  scarlet 
lips,  the  soft,  even  tints  of  her  skin,  the  dark 
lights  and  shadows  of  her  hair  and  eyes. 

"It's  beautiful,"  she  said.  "It's  wonderful.  I 
love  it." 

All  the  time  very  grave  and  still,  she  took  it 
off,  put  it  on  its  box,  and  laid  it  on  the  mantel. 
Then  she  went  out  of  doors. 

Prosper  hurried  to  the  window  and  saw  her 
walk  out  to  the  garden  they  had  made  and  begin 
her  work.  He  was  puzzled  by  her  manner,  but 
presently  shrugged  the  problem  of  her  mood 
away  and  went  back  to  his  mail.  That  night  he 
finished  his  novel  and  got  it  ready  for  the  pub- 
lisher. 

Again  Wen  Ho,  calm  and  uncomplaining,  was 
sent  out  over  the  hill,  and  again  the  idyll  was  re- 
newed, and  Joan  wore  the  collar  and  was  almost 
as  happy  as  before.  Only  one  night  she  startled 
Prosper. 

"I  asked  Pierre,"  she  said  slowly,  after  a 
silence,  in  her  low-pitched  voice,  "when  he  was 
taking  me  away  home,  I  asked,  'Where  are  you 
going?'  and  he  said  to  me,  'Don't  you  savvy  the 
answer  to  that  question,  Joan?'  And,  Prosper,  I 


140  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

did  n't  savvy,  so  he  told  me  and  he  looked  at  me 
sort  of  hard  and  stern,  'We're  a-goin'  to  be 
married,  Joan." 

Prosper  and  Joan  were  sitting  before  the  fire, 
Joan  on  the  bearskin  at  his  feet,  he  lounging 
back,  long-legged,  smoke-veiled,  in  one  of  the 
lacquered  chairs.  She  had  been  fingering  her 
collar  and  she  kept  on  fingering  it  as  she  spoke 
and  staring  straight  into  the  flames,  but,  at  the 
last,  quoting  Pierre's  words  and  tone,  her  voice 
and  face  quivered  and  she  looked  at  him  with 
eyes  of  mysterious  pain,  in  them  a  sort  of  un- 
comprehended  anguish. 

"Why  was  that,  Prosper?"  she  asked;  "I 
mean,  why  did  he  say  it  that  way?  And  what  — 
what  does  it  stand  for,  marrying  or  not  — ?" 

Prosper  jerked  a  little  in  his  chair,  then  said 
he  blasphemously,  "Marriage  is  the  sin  against 
the  Holy  Ghost.  Don't  be  the  conventional 
woman,  Joan.  Is  n't  this  beautiful,  this  life  of 
ours?" 

"Yes."  But  her  eyes  of  uncomprehended  pain 
were  still  upon  him.  So  he  put  his  hand  over 
them  and  drew  her  head  against  his  knee.  "  Yes, 
but  that  other  life  was  —  was  —  before  Pierre 
changed,  it  was  beautiful  — " 

"Of  course.  Love  is  always  beautiful.  Not  even 


Concerning  Marriage  141 

marriage  can  always  spoil  it,  though  it  very  often 
does.  Well,  Joan,"  he  went  on  flippantly,  though 
the  tickle  of  her  lashes  against  his  palm  somehow 
disturbed  his  flippancy,  "I'll  go  into  the  subject 
with  you  one  of  these  days,  when  the  weather 
isn't  so  beautiful.  It's  really  a  matter  of  law, 
property  rights,  and  so  forth;  a  practice  vari- 
ously conducted  in  various  lands;  it's  man's  most 
studied  insult  to  woman;  it's  recommended  as 
the  lesser  of  two  evils  by  a  man  who  despised 
woman  as  only  an  Oriental  can  despise  her,  Saint 
Paul  by  name;  it's  a  thing  civilized  women  cry 
for  till  they  get  it  and  then  quite  bitterly  learn 
to  understand;  it's  a  horrible  invention  which 
need  n't  touch  your  beautiful  clean  soul,  dear. 
Come  out  and  look  at  the  moon." 

"Listen! ""They  stood  side  by  side  at  the  door. 
"Some  silly  bird  thinks  that  is  the  dawn.  Look 
at  me,  Joan!" 

She  lifted  obedient  eyes. 

"There!  That's  better.  Don't  get  that  other 
look.  I  can't  bear  it.  I  love  you." 

A  moment  later  they  went  out  into  the  sweet, 
silver  silence  down  to  the  silver  lake. 

Four  months  later  the  name  of  Prosper  Gael 
began  to  be  on  every  one's  lips,  and  before  every 


142  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

one's  eyes;  the  world,  his  world,  began  to  clamor 
for  him.  Even  Wen  Ho  grumbled  at  this  going 
out  on  tremendous  journeys  after  the  mail  for 
which  Prosper  grew  more  and  more  greedy  and 
impatient.  His  novel,  "The  Canon,"  had  been 
accepted,  was  enormously  advertised,  had  made 
an  extraordinary  success.  All  this  he  explained 
to  Joan,  who  tried  to  rejoice  because  she  saw 
that  it  was  exquisite  delight  to  Prosper.  He  was 
by  way  of  thinking  now  that  his  exile,  his  Wyo- 
ming adventure,  was  to  thank  for  his  success, 
but  when  a  woman,  even  such  a  woman  as  Joan, 
begins  to  feel  that  she  has  been  a  useful  emotional 
experience,  there  begins  pain.  For  Joan  pain 
began  and  daily  it  increased.  It  was  suffering  for 
her  to  watch  Prosper  reading  his  letters,  for- 
warded to  him  from  the  Western  town  where  his 
friends  and  his  secretary  believed  him  to  be  re- 
covering from  some  nervous  illness;  to  watch 
him  smoking  and  thinking  of  himself,  his  fame, 
his  talents,  his  future;  to  watch  him  scribbling 
notes,  planning  another  work,  to  hear  his  excited 
talk,  now  so  impersonal,  so  unrelated  to  her; 
to  see  how  his  eagerness  over  her  education 
slackened,  faltered,  died;  to  notice  that  he  no 
longer  watched  the  changeful  humors  of  her 
beauty  nor  cared  if  she  wore  bronze  or  blue  or 


Concerning  Marriage  143 

yellow;  and  worst  of  all,  to  find  him  staring  at 
her  sometimes  with  a  worried,  impatient  look 
which  scuttled  out  of  sight  like  some  ugly,  many- 
legged  creature  when  it  met  her  own  eyes  — 
painful,  of  course,  yet  such  an  old  story.  Joan, 
who  had  never  heard  of  such  experience,  did  not 
foresee  the  inevitable  end,  and,  in  so  much,  she 
was  spared.  The  extra  pain  of  forfeiting  her  dig- 
nity and  self-respect  did  not  touch  her,  for  she 
made  none  of  those  most  pitiful,  unavailing 
efforts  to  hold  him,  to  cling;  did  not  even  pretend 
indifference.  She  only  drew  gradually  into  her- 
self, shrinking  from  her  pain  and  from  him  as  the 
cause  of  it;  she  only  lost  her  glow  of  love-happi- 
ness, her  face  seemed  dwindled,  seemed  to  con- 
tract, and  that  secret  look  of  a  wild  animal  re- 
turned to  her  gray  eyes.  She  quietly  gave  up  the 
old  regulations  of  their  life;  she  did  not  remind 
him  of  the  study-hours,  the  music-hours,  the 
hours  of  wild  outdoor  play.  She  read  under  the 
firs,  alone;  she  studied  faithfully,  alone;  she 
climbed  and  swam,  alone  —  or  with  his  absent- 
minded,  fitful  company;  she  worked  in  her  gar- 
den, alone.  At  night,  when  he  was  asleep,  she  lay 
with  her  hand  pressed  against  her  heart,  staring 
at  the  darkness,  listening  to  the  night,  waiting. 
Curiously  enough,  his  inevitable  returns  of  pas- 


144  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

sion  and  interest,  the  always  decreasing  flood- 
mark,  each  time  a  line  lower,  did  not  deceive  her, 
did  not  distract  her.  She  never  expressed  her 
trouble,  even  to  herself.  She  did  not  give  it  any 
words.  She  took  her  pain  without  wincing,  with- 
out complaint,  and  when  he  seemed  to  need  her 
in  any  little  way,  in  any  big  way,  she  gave  be- 
cause she  could  not  help  it,  because  she  had 
promised  him  largesse,  because  it  was  her  nature 
to  give.  Besides,  although  she  was  instinctively 
waiting,  she  did  not  foresee  the  end. 

It  was  in  late  October  when,  somewhere  in  the 
pile  of  Prosper's  mail,  there  lay  a  small  gray 
envelope.  Joan  drew  his  attention  to  it,  calling 
it  a  "queer  little  letter,"  and  he  took  it  up  slowly 
as  though  his  deft  and  nervous  fingers  had  gone 
numb.  Before  he  opened  it  he  looked  at  Joan  and, 
in  one  sense,  it  was  the  last  time  he  ever  did  look 
at  her;  for  at  that  moment  his  stark  spirit  looked 
straight  into  hers,  acknowledged  its  guilt,  and 
bade  her  a  mute  and  remorseful  farewell. 

He  read  and  Joan  watched.  His  face  grew  pale 
and  bright  as  though  some  electric  current  had 
been  turned  into  his  veins;  his  eyes,  looking  up 
from  the  writing,  but  not  returning  to  her,  had 
the  look  given  by  some  drug  which  is  meant  to 
stupefy,  but  which  taken  in  an  overdose  intoxi- 


JOAN  WATCHED 


Concerning  Marriage  145 

cates.  He  turned  and  made  for  the  door,  holding 
the  little  gray  folded  paper  in  his  hand.  On  the 
threshold  he  half-faced  her  without  lifting  his 
eyes. 

"I  have  had  extraordinary  news,  Joan.  I  shall 
have  to  go  off  alone  and  think  things  out.  I  don't 
know  when  I  shall  get  back."  He  went  out  and 
shut  the  door  gently. 

Joan  stood  listening.  She  heard  him  go  along 
the  passage  and  through  the  second  door.  She 
heard  his  feet  on  the  mountain  trail.  Afterwards 
she  went  out  and  stood  between  the  two  sentinel 
firs  that  had  marked  the  entrance  to  that  snow- 
tunnel  long  since  disappeared.  Now  it  was  a  late 
October  day,  bright  as  a  bared  sword.  The  flowers 
of  the  Indian  paint-brush  burned  like  red  candle 
flames  everywhere  under  the  firs,  the  fire-weed 
blazed,  the  aspen  leaves  were  laid  like  little 
golden  tiles  against  the  metallic  blue  of  the  sky. 
The  high  peak  pointed  up  dizzily  and  down, 
down  dizzily  into  the  clear  emptiness  of  the  lake. 
This  great  peak  stood  there  in  the  glittering  still- 
ness of  the  day.  A  grouse  boomed,  but  Joan  was 
not  startled  by  the  sudden  rush  of  its  wings.  She 
felt  the  sharp  weight  of  that  silent  mountain  in 
her  heart;  she  might  have  been  buried  under  it. 
So  she  felt  it  all  day  while  she  worked,  a  desper- 


146  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

ate,  bright  day,  —  hideous  in  her  memory,  — 
and  at  night  she  lay  waiting.  After  hours  longer 
than  any  other  hours,  the  door  of  her  bedroom 
opened  and  an  oblong  of  moonlight,  as  white  as 
paper,  fell  across  the  matted  floor.  Prosper 
stepped  in  noiselessly  and  walked  over  to  her  bed. 
He  stood  a  moment  and  she  heard  him  swallow. 

"You're  awake,  Joan?" 

Her  eyes  were  staring  up  at  him,  but  she  lay 
still. 

"Listen,  Joan."  He  spoke  in  short  sentences, 
waiting  between  each  for  some  comment  of  hers 
which  did  not  come.  "I  shall  have  to  go  away 
to-morrow.  I  shall  have  to  go  away  for  some  time. 
I  don't  want  you  to  be  unhappy.  I  want  you  to 
stay  here  for  a  while  if  you  will,  for  as  long  as 
you  want  to  stay.  I  am  leaving  you  plenty  of 
money.  I  will  write  and  explain  it  all  very  clearly 
to  you.  I  know  that  you  will  understand.  Listen." 
Here  he  knelt  and  took  her  hands,  which  he  found 
lying  cold  and  stiff  under  the  cover,  pressed 
against  her  heart.  "I  have  made  you  happy  here 
in  this  little  house,  have  n't  I,  Joan?" 

She  would  not  answer  even  this  except  by  the 
merest  flicker  of  her  eyelids. 

"You  have  trusted  me;  now,  trust  me  a  little 
longer.  My  life  is  very  complicated.  This  beauti- 


Concerning  Marriage  147 

f ul  year  with  you,  the  year  you  have  given  to  me, 
is  just  a  temporary  respite  from  —  from  all  sorts 
of  things.  I've  taught  you  a  great  deal,  Joan. 
I  've  healed  the  wound  that  brute  made  on  your 
shoulder  and  in  your  heart.  I've  taught  you  to 
be  beautiful.  I've  filled  your  mind  with  beauty. 
You  are  a  wonderful  woman.  You'll  live  to  be 
grateful  to  me.  Some  day  you'll  tell  me  so." 

Her  quiet,  curved  lips  moved.  "Are  you  tellin' 
me  good-bye,  Prosper?" 

It  was  impossible  to  lie  to  her.  He  bent  his 
head. 

"Yes,  Joan." 

"Then  tell  it  quick  and  go  out  and  leave  me 
here  to-night." 

It  was  impossible  to  touch  her.  She  might  have 
been  wrapped  in  white  fire.  He  found  that  though 
she  had  not  stirred  a  finger,  his  hand  had  shrunk 
away  from  hers.  He  got  to  his  feet,  all  the  clever- 
ness which  all  day  long  he  had  been  weaving  like 
a  silk  net  to  catch,  to  bewilder,  to  draw  away  her 
brain  from  the  anguish  of  full  comprehension, 
was  shriveled.  He  stood  and  stared  helplessly  at 
her,  dumb  as  a  youth.  And,  obedient,  he  went 
out  and  shut  the  door,  taking  the  white  patch  of 
moonlight  with  him. 

So  Joan,  having  waited,  behind  an  obstinately 


148  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

locked  door,  for  his  departure,  came  out  at  noon 
and  found  herself  in  the  small,  gay  house  alone. 

She  sat  in  one  of  the  lacquered  chairs  and  saw 
after  a  long  while  that  the  Chinaman  was  looking 
at  her. 

Wen  Ho,  it  seemed,  had  been  given  instruc- 
tions. He  was  to  stay  and  take  care  of  the  house 
and  the  lady  for  as  long  as  she  wanted  it,  or  him. 
Afterwards  he  was  to  lock  up  the  house  and  go. 
He  handed  her  a  large  and  bulky  envelope  which 
Joan  took  and  let  lie  in  her  lap. 

"You  can  go  to-morrow,  Wen  Ho,"  she  said. 

"You  no  wait  for  Mr.  Gael  come  back?  He 
say  he  come  back." 

"No.  I'm  not  going  to  wait.  I  guess"  — here 
Joan  twisted  her  mouth  into  a  smile  —  "I'm 
not  one  of  the  waiting  kind.  I'm  a-going  back 
to  my  own  ranch  now.  It  won't  seem  so  awful 
lonesome,  perhaps,  as  1  was  thinking  last  spring 
that  it  would." 

She  touched  the  envelope  without  looking  at  it. 

"Is  this  money,  Wen  Ho?" 

"I  tinkso,  lady." 

She  held  it,  unopened,  out  to  him. 

"1  will  give  it  to  you,  then.  I  have  no  need  of 
it." 

She  stood  up. 


Concerning  Marriage  149 

"I  am  going  out  now  to  climb  up  this  moun- 
tain back  of  the  house  so's  I  can  see  just  where 
I  am.  I  '11  come  down  to-night  for  dinner  and  to- 
morrow after  breakfast  I'll  be  going  away.  You 
understand?" 

"Lady,  you  mean  give  me  all  this  money?" 
babbled  the  Chinaman. 

"Yes,"  said  Joan  gravely;  "I  have  no  need  of 
it." 

She  went  past  him  with  her  swinging  step. 

She  was  coming  down  the  mountain-side  that 
evening,  very  tired,  but  with  the  curious,  peace- 
ful stillness  of  heart  that  comes  with  an  entire 
acceptance  of  fate,  when  she  heard  the  sound  of 
horses'  hoofs  in  the  hollow  of  the  canon.  Her 
heart  began  to  beat  to  suffocation.  She  ran  to 
where,  standing  near  a  big  fir  tree,  she  could  look 
straight  down  on  the  trail  leading  up  to  Prosper 's 
cabin.  Presently  the  horsemen  came  in  sight — 
the  one  that  rode  first  was  tall  and  broad  and 
fair,  she  could  see  under  his  hat-brim  his  straight 
nose  and  firmly  modeled  chin. 

"The  sin-buster!"  said  Joan;  then,  looking  at 
the  other,  who  rode  behind  him,  she  caught  at 
the  tree  with  crooked  hands  and  began  to  sink 
slowly  to  her  knees.  He  was  tall  and  slight,  he 
rode  with  inimitable  grace.  As  she  stared,  he  took 


150  The  Two-Bar  Brand 

off  his  sombrero,  rested  his  hand  on  the  saddle- 
horn,  and  looked  haggardly,  eagerly,  up  the  trail 
toward  the  house.  His  face  was  whiter,  thinner, 
worn  by  protracted  mental  pain,  but  it  was  the 
beautiful,  living  face  of  Pierre. 

Joan  shrank  back  into  the  shadows  of  the 
pines,  crouched  for  a  few  minutes  like  a  mortally 
wounded  beast,  then  ran  up  the  mountain-side 
as  though  the  fire  that  had  once  touched  her 
shoulder  had  eaten  its  way  at  last  into  her  heart. 


Book  Two 

THE  ESTRAY 


BOOK  Two :  The  Estray 

CHAPTER  I 
A  WILD  CAT 

THE  Lazy-Y  ranch-house,  a  one-storied 
building  of  logs,  was  built  about  three  sides 
of  a  paved  court.  In  the  middle  of  this  court 
stood  a  well  with  a  high  rustic  top,  and  about 
this  well  on  a  certain  brilliant  July  night,  a  tall 
man  was  strolling  with  his  hands  behind  his  back. 
It  was  a  night  of  full  moon,  sailing  high,  which 
poured  whiteness  into  the  court,  making  its  cob- 
bles embedded  in  the  earth  look  like  milky  bub- 
bles and  drawing  clear-cut  shadows  of  the  well- 
top  and  the  gables  and  chimneys  of  the  house. 
The  man  slowly  circled  the  court  beginning  close 
to  the  walls  and  narrowing  till  he  made  a  loop 
about  the  well,  and  then,  reversing,  worked  in 
widening  orbits  as  far  as  the  walls  again.  His 
wife,  looking  out  at  him  through  one  of  the  win- 
dows, thought  that,  in  the  moonlight,  followed 
by  his  own  squat,  active  shadow,  he  looked  like 
a  huge  spider  weaving  a  web.  This  effect  was 
heightened  by  the  fact  that  he  never  looked  up. 
He  was  deep  in  some  plan  to  which  it  was  impos- 


154  The  Estray 

sible  for  her  not  to  believe  that  the  curious  pat- 
tern of  his  walk  bore  some  relation. 

From  the  northern  wing  of  the  ranch-house, 
strongly  lighted,  came  a  tumult  of  sound;  music, 
thumping  feet,  a  man's  voice  chanting  couplets: 

"  Oh,  you  walk  right  through  and  you  turn  around  and 

swing  the  girl  that  finds  you, 
And  you  come  right  back  by  the  same  old  track  and  turn 

the  girl  behind  you." 

Some  one  was  directing  a  quadrille  in  native 
fashion.  There  was  much  laughter,  confusion, 
and  applause.  None  of  this  noise  disturbed  the 
man.  He  did  not  look  at  the  lighted  windows. 
He  might  really  have  been  a  gigantic  insect 
entirely  unrelated  to  the  human  creatures  so 
noisily  near  at  hand. 

A  man  came  round  the  corner  of  the  house, 
crossed  the  square,  and,  lurching  a  little,  made 
for  the  door  of  the  lighted  wing.  Shortly  after 
his  entrance  the  sound  of  music  and  dancing 
abruptly  stopped.  This  stillness  gave  the  spider 
pause,  but  he  was  about  to  renew  his  weaving, 
when,  in  the  silence,  a  woman  spoke. 

"  You,  Mabel,  don't  you  go  home,"  she  said. 

She  had  not  spoken  loudly,  but  her  voice  beat 
against  the  walls  of  the  court  as  though  it  could 
have  filled  the  whole  moonlight  night  with  dan- 


A  Wild  Cat  155 

gerous  beauty.  The  listener  outside  lifted  his 
head  with  a  low,  startled  exclamation.  Sud- 
denly the  world  was  alive  with  adventure  and 
alarm. 

"Mind  your  own  business,  you  wild  cat,"  an- 
swered a  man's  raucous  voice.  "She's  my  wife, 
which  is  somethin'  that  your  sort  knows  nothin4 
about.  Come  on,  you  Mabel.  You  think  that 
outlaw  can  keep  me  from  takin'  home  my  wife, 
you're  betting  wrong." 

Another  silence;  then  the  voice  again,  a  little 
louder,  as  though  the  speaker  had  stepped  out 
into  the  center  of  the  room. 

"Mabel  is  not  a-goin'  home  with  you,"  it  said; 
and  the  listener  outside  threw  back  his  head  with 
the  gesture  of  a  man  sensitive  to  music  who  lis- 
tens to  some  ecstatic  melody.  "She  happens  to 
be  stoppin*  here  with  us  to-night.  You  say  that 
she's  your  wife,  but  that  don't  mean  that  she 
belongs  to  you,  body  and  soul,  Bill  Greer  —  not 
to  you,  who  don't  possess  your  own  body,  or  soul. 
Why,  you  can't  keep  your  feet  steady,  you  can't 
pull  your  hand  away  from  mine.  You  can't  hold 
your  tipsy  eyes  on  mine.  Do  you  call  that  ownin' 
your  own  body?  And  as  fer  your  soul,  it's  a  hell 
of  rage  and  dirty  feelin's  that  I'd  hate  to  burn 
my  eyes  by  lookin*  closely  at." 


156  The  Estray 

A  deep,  short,  alarming  chorus  of  laughter 
interrupted  the  speech.  The  speaker  evidently 
had  her  audience. 

"So  you  don't  own  anything  to-night,"  went 
on  the  extraordinary,  deliberate  voice;  "surely 
you  don't  own  Mabel.  You  can't  get  a  claim  on 
her,  not  thataway.  She's  her  own.  She  belongs 
to  her  own  self.  When  you're  fit  to  take  her,  why, 
then  come  and  tell  us  about  it,  and  if  we  judge 
you  're  a-tellin'  us  the  truth,  mebbe  we  '11  let  her 
go.  Till  then — "  a  pause  which  was  filled  with 
a  rapid  shuffling  of  feet.  The  door  flew  open  and 
in  its  lighted  oblong  the  observer  saw  a  huddled 
figure  behind  which  rose  a  woman's  black  and 
shapely  head.  "Till  then,"  repeated  the  deep- 
toned,  ringing  voice,  "get  out!"  And  the  huddled 
man  came  on  a  staggering  run  which  ended  in  a 
backward  fall  on  the  cobbles  of  the  court. 

The  man  who  watched  trod  lightly  past  him 
and  came  to  the  open  door.  Inside,  firelight  beat 
on  the  golden  log  walls  and  salmon-colored  tim- 
ber ceiling;  a  lamp  hanging  from  a  beam  threw 
down  a  strong,  conflicting  arc  of  white  light. 
A  dozen  brown-faced,  booted  young  men  stood 
about,  three  musicians  were  ready  to  take  up 
their  interrupted  music,  the  little  fat  man  who 
had  called  out  the  figures  of  the  quadrille,  stood 


A  Wild  Cat  157 

on  a  barrel,  his  arms  folded  across  his  paunch. 
A  fair-haired  girl,  her  face  marred  by  recent  tears, 
drooped  near  him.  Two  of  the  young  men  were 
murmuring  reassurances  to  her;  others  sur- 
rounded a  stout,  red-faced  girl  who  was  laughing 
and  talking  loudly.  The  Jew's  eyes  wandered  till 
they  came  to  the  fireplace.  There  another  woman 
leaned  against  the  wall. 

The  music  struck  up,  the  dancing  began  again* 
the  two  other  girls,  quickly  provided  with  part- 
ners, began  to  waltz,  the  superfluous  men  stood 
up  together  and  went  at  it  with  gravity  and 
grace.  No  one  asked  this  woman,  who  stood  at 
ease,  watching  the  dancers,  her  hands  resting  on 
her  hips,  her  head  tilted  back  against  the  logs, 
As  he  looked  at  her,  the  intruder  had  a  queer 
little  thrill  of  fright.  He  remembered  something 
he  had  once  seen  —  a  tame  panther  which  was 
to  be  used  in  some  moving-picture  play.  Its  con- 
fident owner  had  led  it  in  on  a  chain  and  held  it 
negligently  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  waiting  for 
his  cue.  The  panther  had  stood  there  drowsily, 
its  eyes  shifting  a  little,  then,  watching  people, 
its  inky  head  had  begun  to  move  from  side  to 
side.  He  remembered  the  way  the  loose  chain 
jerked.  The  animal's  eyes  half-closed,  it  lowered 
its  head,  its  upper  lip  began  to  draw  away  from. 


158  The  Estray 

its  teeth.  All  at  once  it  had  dropped  on  its  belly. 
Some  one  cried  out,  "Hold  your  beast!" 

This  young  woman  by  the  fireplace  had  just 
that  panther-air  of  perilous  quietness.  She  was 
very  haggard,  very  thin;  she  wore  her  massive, 
black  hair  drawn  away  hideously  from  brow  and 
temple,  and  out  of  this  lean,  unshaded  face  a 
pair  of  deep  eyes  looked  drowsily,  dangerously. 
Her  mouth  was  straightened  into  an  expression 
of  proud  bitterness,  her  round  chin  thrust  for- 
ward; there  was  a  deep,  scowling  line  that  rose 
from  the  bridge  of  her  straight,  short  nose  almost 
to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  It  cut  across  a  splendidly 
modeled  brow.  She  was  very  graceful,  if  such  a 
bundle  of  bones  might  be  said  to  have  any  grace. 
Her  pose  was  arresting.  There  was  a  tragic  force 
and  attraction  about  her. 

The  man  by  the  door  appraised  her  carefully 
between  his  narrowed  lids.  He  kept  in  mind  the 
remembered  melody  of  her  voice,  and,  after  a  few 
moments,  he  strolled  across  the  floor  and  came 
up  to  her. 

"Will  you  dance?"  he  said. 

He  had  a  very  charming  and  subtle  smile,  a 
very  charming  and  sympathetic  look.  The  woman 
was  startled,  color  rose  into  her  face.  She  stared 
at  him. 


A  Wild  Cat  159 

"I'm  not  dancing,  Mr.  Morena,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"You  know  my  name/'  smiled  Morena;  "and 
I  don't  know  yours.  I've  been  on  Mr.  Yarnall's 
ranch  for  a  month.  Why  have  n't  I  seen  you?  " 

"Fer  not  lookin',  I  suppose."  She  had  given 
him  that  one  startled  glance,  and  now  she  had 
turned  her  eyes  back  to  the  dancers  and  wore 
a  grim,  contemptuous  air.  Her  speeches,  though 
they  were  cut  into  short,  crisp  words,  were  full 
of  music  of  a  sharp,  metallic  quality  different 
from  the  tone  of  her  other  speech,  but  quite  as 
beautifully  expressive. 

"May  I  smoke?"  asked  Morena.  He  was  still 
smiling  his  charming  smile  and  watching  her  out 
of  the  corners  of  his  eyes. 

"I'm  not  hinderin'  you  any,"  said  she. 

Morena  smiled  deeper.  He  took  some  time 
making  and  lighting  his  cigarette. 

"You  don't  smoke,  yourself?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

"Nor  dance?" 

"No." 

"Nor  behave  prettily  to  polite  young  men?" 

Again  the  woman  looked  at  him.  "You  ain't 
so  awful  young,  are  you?" 

He  laughed  aloud. 


160  The  Estray 

"I  amuse  you,  don't  I?  Well,  I'm  not  always 
so  all-fired  funny,"  drawled  the  creature,  lower- 
ing her  head  a  little. 

"No.  I've  heard  that  you're  not.  You  rather 
run  things  here,  I  gather;  got  the  boys  'plumb- 
scared'?" 

"Did  Mr.  Yarnall  tell  you  that?  " 

"Yes.  I 've  just  in  the  last  few  minutes  remem- 
bered who  you  are.  You're  Jane.  You  cook  for 
the  'outfit,'  and  Yarnall  was  telling  us  the  other 
night  how  he  sent  one  of  the  boys  out  for  a  cook, 
the  last  one,  a  man,  having  been  beaten  up,  and 
how  the  boy  had  brought  you  back  behind  him 
on  his  saddle.  He  said  you'd  kept  order  for  him 
ever  since,  were  better  than  a  foreman.  Who  was 
the  man  you  threw  out  to-night?" 

"Perhaps,"  drawled  Jane,  "he  was  just  a  feller 
who  asked  too  many  questions?" 

Again  Morena's  smile  deepened  into  his  cheeks. 
He  gave  way,  in  the  Jewish  fashion  so  deceptively 
suggestive  of  meekness  and  timidity,  when  it  is, 
at  its  worst,  merely  pliable  insolence,  at  its  best, 
pliable  determination.  "You  must  pardon  me, 
Miss  Jane,"  he  said  in  his  murmuring,  cultivated 
voice.  "You  see  I've  had  a  great  misfortune. 
I  Ve  never  been  in  your  West.  I  Ve  lived  in  New 
York  where  good  manners  have  n't  time  or  space 


A  Wild  Cat  161 

to  flourish.  I  had  n't  the  least  intention  of  being 
impertinent.  Do  you  want  me  to  go?" 

He  moved  as  if  to  leave  her,  and  she  did  not 
lift  a  finger  to  detain  him. 

"I'm  not  carin'.  Do  as  you  please,"  she  said 
with  entire  indifference. 

"Oh,"  said  Morena,  looking  back  at  her,  "I 
don't  stay  where  people  are  'not  carin'." 

She  gave  him  an  extraordinarily  intelligent 
look.  "I  should  say  that's  the  only  place  you'd 
be  want  in'  to  stay  in  at  all  —  where  you  're  not 
exactly  urged  to  come,"  she  said. 

Morena  flushed  and  his  lids  flickered.  He  was 
for  an  instant  absurdly  inclined  to  anger  and 
made  two  or  three  steps  away.  But  he  came 
back. 

He  bowed  and  spoke  as  he  would  have  spoken 
to  a  great  lady,  suavely,  deferentially. 

"Good-night.  I  wish  1  could  think  that  you 
have  enjoyed  our  talk  as  greatly  as  I  have,  Miss 
Jane.  I  should  very  much  like  to  be  allowed  to 
repeat  it.  May  I  be  stupidly  personal  and  tell 
you  that  you  are  very  beautiful?"  He  bowed, 
gave  her  an  upward  look  and  went  out,  finding 
his  way  cleverly  among  the  dancers. 

Outside,  in  the  moonlit  court,  he  stood,  threw 
back  his  head  and  laughed,  not  loudly  but  con- 


162  The  Estray 

sumedly.  He  was  remembering  her  white  face  of 
mute  astonishment.  She  looked  almost  as  if  his 
compliment  had  given  her  sharp  pain. 

Morena  went  laughing  to  his  room  in  the 
opposite  wing.  He  wanted  to  describe  the  inter- 
view to  his  wife. 


CHAPTER  n 

MORENA'S  WIFE 

BETTY  MORENA  was  sitting  in  a  rustic 
chair  before  an  open  fire,  smoking  a  ciga- 
rette. She  was  a  short  woman,  so  slenderly,  even 
narrowly  built,  as  to  appear  overgrown,  and  she 
was  a  mature  woman  so  immaturely  shaped  and 
featured  as  to  appear  hardly  more  than  a  child. 
Her  curly,  russet  hair  was  parted  at  the  side,  her 
wide,  long-lashed  eyes  were  set  far  apart,  her 
nose  was  really  a  finely  modeled  snub,  —  more,  a 
boy's  nose  even  to  a  light  sprinkling  of  freckles, 
—  and  her  mouth  was  provokingly  the  soft,  red 
mouth  of  a  sorrowful  child.  She  lounged  far  down 
in  her  chair,  her  slight  legs,  clad  in  riding-breeches 
of  perfect  cut,  stretched  out  straight,  her  limber 
arms  along  the  arms  of  the  chair,  her  chin  sunk 
on  her  flat  chest,  and  her  big,  clear  eyes  staring 
into  the  fire.  It  was  an  odd  figure  of  a  wife  for 
Jasper  Morena,  a  Jew  of  thirty-eight,  producer 
and  manager  of  plays. 

When  Betty  Kane  had  run  away  with  him, 
there  had  been  lamentation  and  rage  in  the  houses 
of  Kane  and  of  Morena.  To  the  pride  of  an  old 


164  The  Estray 

Hebrew  family,  the  marriage  even  of  this  wan- 
dering son  with  a  Gentile  was  fully  as  degrading 
as  to  the  pride  of  the  old  Tory  family  was  the 
marriage  with  a  Jew.  Her  perverse  Gaelic  blood 
on  fire  with  the  insults  heaped  upon  her  lover, 
Betty,  seventeen  years  old,  romantic,  clever, 
would  have  walked  over  flint  to  give  her  hand  to 
him.  That  was  ten  years  ago.  Now,  when  Jasper 
came  into  her  room,  she  drew  her  quick  brows 
together,  puffed  at  her  cigarette,  and  blinked  as 
though  she  was  looking  at  something  distasteful 
and  at  the  same  time  rather  alarming. 

"Have  they  stopped  dancing,  Jasper?"  she 
asked  in  a  voice  that  was  at  once  brusque  and 
soft. 

Jasper  rubbed  his  hands  delightedly.  He  was 
still  merry,  and  came  to  stand  near  the  fire, 
looking  down  at  her  with  eyes  entirely  kind 
and  admiring. 

"Have  you  ever  noticed  Jane,  who  cooks  for 
the  outfit,  Betty?" 

"Yes.  She's  horrible." 

"She's  extraordinary,  and  I  mean  to  get  hold 
of  her  for  Luck's  play.  Did  you  read  it?" 

"Yes."' 

"The  play  is  absolutely  dependent  on  the 
leading  part  and  I  have  found  it  simply  impossi- 


Morena's  Wife  165 

ble  to  fill.  Now,  here 's  a  woman  of  extraordinary 
grace  and  beauty  — " 

Betty  lifted  skeptical  eyebrows,  twisted  her 
limber  mouth,  but  forbore  to  contradict. 

"And  with  a  magical  voice  —  a  woman  who 
not  only  looks  the  part,  but  is  it.  You  remember 
Luck's  heroine?" 

Betty  flicked  off  the  ash  of  her  cigarette  and 
looked  away.  "A  savage,  is  n't  she?  The  man  has 
her  tamed,  takes  her  back  to  London,  and  there 
gives  her  cause  for  jealousy  and  she  springs  on 
him  —  yes,  I  remember.  This  woman,  Jane,  is  ab- 
solutely without  education  and  has  n't  a  notion 
of  acting,  I  suppose." 

Jasper  rubbed  his  hands  with  increased  delight. 
"Not  a  notion  and  she  murders  the  King's  Eng- 
lish. But  she  is  Luck's  savage  and  —  in  spite  of 
your  eyebrows,  Betty  —  she  is  beautiful.  I  can 
school  her.  It  will  take  money,  no  end  of  pa- 
tience, but  I  can  do  it.  It's  one  of  the  things  I 
can  do.  But,  of  course,  there's  the  initial  diffi- 
culty of  persuading  her  to  try  it." 

"That  ought  n't  to  be  any  difficulty  at  all.  Of 
course  she'll  jump  at  the  chance." 

"I'm  not  so  sure.  She  was  ready  to  throw  me 
out  of  the  kitchen  to-night.  She  is  really  a  virago. 
Do  you  know  what  one  of  the  men  said  about 


166  The  Estray 

her?"  Jasper  laughed  and  imitated  the  gentle 
Western  drawl.  "Jane's  plumb  movin'  to  me. 
She's  about  halfway  between  'You  go  to  hell' 
and  'You  take  me  in  your  arms  to  rest." 

Betty  smiled.  Her  smile  was  vastly  more  ma- 
ture than  her  appearance.  It  was  clever  and  cyn- 
ical and  cold.  The  Oriental,  looking  down  at  her, 
lost  his  merriment. 

"Do  you  feel  better,  dear?"  he  asked  timidly. 
"Do  you  think  you  will  be  able  to  go  back  next 
week?" 

She  stood  up  as  he  came  nearer  and  walked 
over  to  the  little  table  that  played  the  part  of 
dressing-table  under  a  wavy  mirror.  "Oh,  yes. 
I  am  quite  well.  I  don't  think  the  doctors  have 
much  sense.  I  'm  sure  I  had  n't  anything  like  a 
nervous  breakdown.  I  was  just  tired  out." 

Jasper  drew  back  the  hand  whose  touch  she 
had  eluded,  and  nervously,  his  long  supple  fingers 
a  little  unsteady,  lighted  a  cigarette.  At  that 
moment  he  did  not  look  like  a  spider,  but  like  a 
lover  who  has  been  hurt.  Betty  could  see  in  the 
mirror  a  distorted  image  of  his  dejected  grace- 
fulness, but,  entirely  unmoved,  she  put  up  her 
thin,  brown  hands  and  began  to  take  the  pins 
out  of  her  hair. 

"I  like  your  Jane  experiment,"  she  said.  "Let 


Morena's  Wife  167 

me  know  how  you  get  on  with  it  and  whether  I 
can  help.  I  shall  have  to  turn  in  now.  I'm  dead 
beat.  Yarnall  took  me  halfway  up  the  mountain 
and  back.  Good-night." 

Jasper  looked  at  her,  then  pressed  his  lips  into 
a  straight  line  and  went  to  the  door  which  led 
from  her  bedroom  to  his.  He  said  "Good-night" 
in  a  low  tone,  glanced  at  her  over  his  shoulder, 
and  went  out. 

Betty  waited  an  instant,  then  slowly  unlaced 
her  heavy,  knee-high  boots,  took  them  off,  and 
began  to  walk  to  and  fro  on  stocking  feet,  hands 
clasped  behind  her  back.  With  her  curly  hair  all 
about  her  face  and  shoulders,  she  looked  like  a 
wild,  extravagantly  naughty  school-girl,  a  girl  in  a 
wicked  temper,  a  rebel  against  authority.  In  fact, 
she  was  rejoicing  that  this  horrible  enforced  visit 
to  the  West  was  all  but  over.  One  week  more! 
She  was  almost  at  an  end  of  her  endurance.  How 
she  hated  the  beautiful  white  night  outside,  those 
mountain  peaks,  the  sound  of  that  rapid  river, 
the  stillness  of  sagebrush,  the  voice  of  the  big 
pines !  And  she  hated  the  log  room,  its  simplicity 
now  all  littered  with  incongruous  luxuries;  ivory 
toilet  articles  on  the  board  table;  lacy,  berib- 
boned  underwear  thrown  over  the  rustic  chair; 
silver-framed  photographs;  an  exquisite,  gold- 


168  The  Estray 

mounted  crystal  vase  full  of  wild  flowers  on  the 
pine  shelf;  satin  bedroom  slippers  on  the  clay 
hearth;  a  gorgeous,  fur- trimmed  dressing-gown 
over  the  foot  of  her  narrow,  iron  cot;  all  the 
ridiculous  necessities  that  Betty's  maid  had  put 
into  her  trunk.  Yes,  Betty  hated  it  all  because 
it  was  what  she  had  always  thirsted  for.  What  a 
malevolent  trick  of  fate  that  Jasper  should  have 
brought  her  to  Wyoming,  that  the  doctor  had 
insisted  upon  at  least  a  month  of  just  this  life. 
"Take  her  West,"  he  had  said,  and  Betty,  lying 
limp  and  white  in  her  bed,  her  small  head  sunk 
into  the  pillow,  had  jerked  from  head  to  foot. 
"Take  her  West.  I  know  a  ranch  in  Wyoming  — 
Yarnall's.  She'll  get  outdoor  exercise,  tonic  air, 
sound  sleep,  release  from  all  these  pestiferous 
details,  like  a  cloud  of  flies,  that  sting  women's 
nerves  to  death.  Don't  pay  any  attention  to 
whether  she  likes  it  or  not.  Let  her  behave  like  a 
naughty  child,  let  her  kick  and  scream  and  cry. 
Pick  her  up,  Morena,  and  carry  her  off.  Do  you 
hear?  Don't  let  her  make  you  change  your  plans." 
The  doctor  had  seen  his  patient's  convulsive  jerk. 
"Pack  her  up.  Make  your  reservations  and  go 
straight  to  'Buck'  Yarnall's  ranch,  Lazy-Y,  — 
that's  his  brand,  I  believe,  —  Middle  Fork, 
Wyoming.  I'll  send  him  a  wire.  He  knows  me. 


Morena's  Wife  169 

She  needs  all  outdoors  to  run  about  in.  She  needs 
joggin'  around  all  day  through  the  sagebrush  on 
a  cow-pony  in  that  sun;  she  needs  the  smell  of  a 
camp-fire  —  Gad !  wish  I  could  get  back  to  it 
myself." 

Betty,  having  heard  this  out,  began  to  laugh. 
She  laughed  till  they  gave  her  something  to  keep 
her  quiet.  But,  except  for  that  laughter,  she  had 
made  no  protest  whatever;  she  did  not  "kick  and 
scream  and  cry."  In  fact,  though  she  looked  like 
a  child,  she  was  not  at  all  inclined  to  such  exhibi- 
tions. This  doctor  had  not  seen  her  through  her 
recent  ordeal.  Two  years  before  her  breakdown, 
Jasper  had  been  terribly  hurt  in  an  automobile 
accident,  and  Betty  had  come  to  him  at  the  hos- 
pital, had  waited,  as  white  as  a  snow-image,  for 
the  result  of  the  examination.  They  had  told  her 
emphatically  that  there  was  no  hope.  Jasper 
Morena  could  not  live  for  more  than  a  few  days. 
She  must  not  allow  herself  to  hope.  He  might  or 
might  not  regain  consciousness.  If  he  did,  it 
would  be  for  a  few  minutes  before  the  end.  Betty 
had  listened  with  her  white,  rigid,  child  face, 
had  thanked  them,  had  gone  home.  There  in  her 
exquisite,  little  sitting  room  above  Central  Park, 
she  had  sat  at  her  desk  and  written  a  few  lines  on 
square,  gray  note  paper. 


170  The  Estray 

"Jasper  is  dying,"  she  had  written.  "By  the 
time  you  get  this,  he  will  be  dead.  If  you  can  for- 
give me  for  having  failed  in  courage  last  year, 
come  back.  What  I  have  been  to  you  before  I 
will  be  again,  only,  this  time  we  can  love  openly. 
Come  back." 

Then  she  had  dropped  her  head  on  the  desk 
and  cried.  Afterwards  she  had  addressed  her  let- 
ter to  a  certain  Prosper  Gael.  The  letter  went  to 
Wyoming.  When  it  reached  its  destination,  it 
was  taken  over  a  mountain-range  by  a  patient 
Chinaman. 

Three  days  later  Jasper  regained  consciousness 
and  began  slowly  to  return  to  health.  He  had  the 
tenacious  vitality  of  his  race,  and,  in  his  own 
spirit,  an  iron  will  to  live.  He  kept  Betty  beside 
his  bed  for  hours,  and  held  her  cold  hand  in  his 
long,  sensitive  one,  and  he  stared  at  her  under 
his  lashes  till  she  thought  she  must  go  mad.  But 
she  did  not.  She  nursed  him  through  an  inter- 
minable convalescence.  She  received  Prosper, 
very  early  in  this  convalescence,  by  her  hus- 
band's bed,  and  Jasper  had  murmured  gratitude 
for  the  emotion  that  threatened  to  overwhelm 
his  friend.  It  was  not  till  some  time  —  an  extra- 
ordinarily long  time  —  after  Morena's  complete 
recovery  that  she  had  snapped  like  a  broken 


Morena's  Wife  171 

icicle.  And  then,  forsooth,  they  had  sent  her  to 
Wyoming  to  get  back  her  health! 

Having  paced  away  some  of  her  restlessness, 
Betty  stopped  by  the  cabin  window  and  pushed 
aside  one  of  the  short,  calico  curtains.  She  looked 
out  on  the  court.  A  tall  woman  had  just  pulled  up 
a  bucket  of  water  from  the  well  and  had  emptied 
it  into  a  pitcher.  She  finished,  let  the  bucket  drop 
with  a  whirr  and  a  clash,  and  raised  her  head. 
For  a  second  she  and  Jasper  Morena's  wife  looked 
at  each  other.  Betty  nodded,  smiled,  and  drew 
the  curtain  close. 


CHAPTER  HI 
JANE 

AFTER  that  night,  there  began  a  sort  of  per- 
secution, skillfully  conducted  by  Jasper  and 
Betty,  against  the  ferocity  of  Jane.  It  was  a  per- 
secution impossible  to  imagine  in  any  other  set- 
ting, even  the  social  simplicity  of  Lazy-Y  found 
itself  a  trifle  amused.  For  Jasper,  the  stately 
Jewish  figure,  would  carry  pails  of  water  for 
Jane  from  the  well  to  the  kitchen,  would  help 
her  in  the  vegetable  garden,  and  to  straighten 
out  her  recalcitrant  stove-pipe;  Betty  would  put 
on  an  apron  a  mile  too  large,  to  wash  dishes  and 
shell  peas.  She  would  sit  on  the  kitchen  table 
swinging  her  long,  childlike  legs  and  chatter  ami- 
ably. Jasper  talked,  too,  to  the  virago,  talked 
delightfully,  about  horses  and  dogs,  —  he  had  a 
charming  gift  of  humorous  observation,  —  talked 
about  hunting  and  big-game  shooting,  about 
trapping,  about  travel,  and,  at  last,  about  plays. 
Undoubtedly  Jane  listened.  Sometimes  she 
laughed.  Once  in  a  while  she  ejaculated,  musi- 
cally, "Well!"  Occasionally  she  swore. 

One  afternoon  he  met  her  riding  home  from 


Jane  173 

an  errand  to  a  neighboring  ranch,  and,  turning 
his  horse,  rode  with  her.  In  worn  corduroy  skirt, 
flannel  shirt,  and  gray  sombrero,  she  looked  like 
a  handsome,  haggard  boy,  and,  that  afternoon, 
there  was  a  certain  unusual  wistfulness  in  her 
eyes,  and  her  mouth  had  relaxed  a  little  from  its 
bitterness.  Perhaps  it  was  the  beauty  of  a  clear, 
keen  summer  day;  without  doubt,  also,  she  was 
touched  by  the  courteous  pleasure  of  his  greeting 
and  by  his  giving  up  his  ride  in  order  to  accom- 
pany her.  She  even  unbent  from  her  silence  and, 
for  the  first  time,  really  talked  to  him.  And  she 
spoke,  too,  in  a  new  manner,  using  her  beautiful 
voice  with  beautiful  carefulness.  It  was  like  a 
master-musician  who,  after  a  long  illness,  takes 
up  his  beloved  instrument  and  tentatively  tests 
his  shaken  powers.  Jasper  had  much  ado  to  keep 
his  surprise  to  himself,  for  the  rough  ranch  girl 
could  speak  pure  enough  English  if  she  would. 

"You  and  your  wife  are  leaving  soon?"  she 
asked  him,  and,  when  he  nodded,  she  gave  a  sigh. 
"I'll  be  missing  you,"  she  said,  throwing  away 
her  brusquerie  like  a  rag  with  which  she  was  done. 
"You've  been  company  for  me.  You've  made 
use  of  lots  of  patience  and  courage,  but  I  have 
really  liked  it.  I've  not  got  the  ways  of  being 
sociable  and  I  don't  know  that  I  want  ever  to 


174  The  Estray 

get  them.  I  am  not  seeking  for  friends.  There 
is  n't  another  person  on  the  ranch  that  would 
dare  talk  to  me  as  you  and  Mrs.  Morena  have 
talked.  They  don't  know  anything  about  me 
here  and  I  don't  mean  that  they  should  know." 
She  paused,  then  gave  way  to  an  impulse  of  con- 
fidence. "One  of  the  boys  asked  me  to  marry 
him.  He  came  and  shouted  it  through  the  win- 
dow and  I  caught  him  with  a  pan  of  water."  She 
sighed.  "I  don't  know  rightly  if  he  meant  it  for 
a  joke  or  not,  but  the  laugh  was  n't  on  me." 

Jasper  controlled  his  laughter,  then  saw  the  dry 
humor  of  her  eyes  and  lips  and  let  out  his  mirth. 

"Why,  sir,"  said  Jane,  "you'd  be  surprised 
at  the  foolishness  of  men.  Sometimes  it  seems 
that,  just  for  pure  contrariness,  they  want  to 
marry  her  that  least  wants  them  about.  The  day 
I  came  tramping  into  this  valley,  I  stopped  for 
food  at  the  ranch  of  an  old  bachelor  down  yon- 
der at  the  ford.  And  he  invited  me  to  be  his  wife 
while  I  was  drinking  a  glass  of  water  from  his 
well.  He  told  me  how  much  money  he  had  and 
said  he'd  start  my  stove  for  me  winter  mornings. 
There's  a  good  husband!  And  he  was  sure  kind 
to  me  even  when  I  told  him  'no.'  'T  was  that 
same  evening  that  the  boy  from  Lazy-Y  rode  in 
and  claimed  me  for  a  cook.  Mr.  Yarnall  is  a  trust- 


Jane  175 

ing  man.  He  took  me  and  did  n't  ask  any  ques- 
tions. I  told  him  I  was  'Jane'  and  that  I  wasn't 
planning  to  let  him  know  more.  He  has  n't  asked 
me  another  question  since.  He's  a  gentleman,  I 
figure  it,  and  he's  kind  of  quiet  himself  about 
what  he  was  before  he  came  to  this  country. 
He's  a  man  of  fifty  and  he  has  lots  back  of 
him  only  he's  taken  a  fresh  start."  She  sighed, 
"Folks  like  you  and  Betty  seem  awfully  open- 
hearted.  It's  living  in  cities,  I  suppose,  where 
every  one  knows  every  one  else  so  well." 

This  astonishing  picture  of  the  candid  simplic- 
ity of  New  York's  social  life  absorbed  Jasper's 
attention  for  some  time. 

"Would  n't  you  like  to  live  in  a  city,  Jane?" 

She  laughed  her  short,  boyish  "Hoo!"  "It 
is  n't  what  I  would  like,  Mr.  Morena,"  she  said. 
"Why,  I'd  like  to  see  the  world.  I  would  like  to 
be  that  fellow  who  was  condemned  to  wander  all 
over  the  earth  and  never  to  die.  He  was  a  Jew, 
too,  was  n't  he?" 

Jasper  flushed.  People  were  not  in  the  habit  of 
making  direct  reference  to  his  nationality,  and, 
being  an  Israelite  who  had  early  cut  himself  off 
with  dislike  from  his  own  people  and  cultivated 
the  society  of  Gentiles,  "a  man  without  a  coun- 
try," he  was  acutely  sensitive. 


176  The  Estray 

"The  Wandering  Jew?  Yes.  Where  did  you 
ever  hear  of  him?" 

"I  read  his  story,"  she  answered  absently;  "an 
awful  long  one,  but  interesting,  about  lots  of 
people,  by  Eugene  Sue." 

Jasper's  lips  fell  apart  and  he  stared.  She  had 
spoken  unwittingly  and  he  could  see  that  she 
was  not  thinking  of  him,  that  she  was  far  away, 
staring  beyond  her  horse's  head  into  the  broad, 
sunset-brightened  west. 

"Where  were  you  schooled?"  he  asked  her. 

He  had  brought  her  back  and  her  face  stiffened. 
She  gave  him  a  startled,  almost  angry  look,  dug 
her  heels  into  her  horse  and  broke  into  a  gallop; 
nor  could  he  win  from  her  another  word. 

A  few  days  before  he  left,  he  took  Yarnall  into 
his  confidence.  At  first  the  rancher  would  do 
nothing  but  laugh.  "Jane  on  the  boards!  That's 
a  notion!"  followed  by  explosion  after  explosion 
of  mirth.  The  Jew  waited,  patient,  pliant,  smil- 
ing, and  then  enumerated  his  reasons.  He  talked 
to  Yarnall  for  an  hour,  at  the  end  of  which  time, 
Yarnall,  his  eyes  still  twinkling,  sent  for  Jane. 

The  two  men  sat  in  a  log-walled  room,  known 
as  the  office.  Yarnall's  big  desk  crowded  a  stove. 
There  was  no  other  furniture  except  shelves  and 
a  box  seat  beneath  a  window.  Jasper  sat  on  the 


Jane  177 

end  of  the  desk,  swinging  his  slim,  well-booted 
leg;  Yarnall,  stocky,  gray,  shabby,  weather- 
beaten,  leaned  back  in  his  wicker  chair.  The  door 
which  Jasper  faced  was  directly  behind  Yarnall. 
When  Jane  opened  it,  he  turned. 

The  girl  looked  grim  and  a  little  pale.  She  was 
evidently  frightened.  This  summons  from  Yar- 
nall suggested  dismissal  or  reproof.  She  came 
around  to  face  him  and  stood  there,  looking  fierce 
and  graceful,  her  head  lowered,  staring  gloomily 
at  him  from  under  her  brows.  To  Jasper  she  gave 
not  so  much  as  a  glance. 

"Well,  Jane,  I  fancy  I  shall  have  to  let  you 
go,"  said  Yarnall.  He  was  not  above  tormenting 
the  wild-cat.  Female  ferocity  always  excites  the 
teasing  boy  in  a  man.  "You're  getting  too  ambi- 
tious for  us.  You  see,  once  these  rich  New  Yorkers 
take  you  up,  you  're  no  more  use  to  a  plain  ranch- 
man like  me." 

"What  are  you  drivin'  at?"  asked  Jane. 

"Do  let  me  explain  it  to  her,  Yarnall!"  Jasper 
snapped  his  elastic  fingers,  color  had  risen  to  his 
face,  and  he  looked  annoyed.  "Miss  Jane,  won't 
you  sit  down?" 

Jane  turned  her  deep,  indignant  eyes  upon  him. 
"  Are  you  and  your  wife  the  rich  New  Yorkers  he 
says  are  takin5  me  up?" 


178  The  Estray 

"No,  no.  He 's  joking.  This  is  a  serious  business. 
It 's  of  vital  importance  to  me  and  it  ought  to  be 
of  vital  importance  to  you.  Please  do  sit  down!" 

Jane  took  a  long  step  back  and  sat  down  on 
the  settle  under  the  long,  horizontal  window.  She 
folded  her  hands  on  her  knee  and  looked  up  at 
Morena.  She  had  transferred  her  attention  com- 
pletely to  him.  Yarnall  watched  them.  He  was 
an  Englishman  of  much  experience  and  this 
picture  of  the  skillful,  cultivated,  handsome 
Jew  angling  deftly  for  the  gaunt,  young  savage 
diverted  him  hugely.  He  screwed  up  his  eyes 
to  get  a  picture  of  it. 

"I  am  a  producer  and  manager  of  plays,"  said 
Jasper,  "which  means  that  I  take  a  play  written 
by  a  more  gifted  man  and  arrange  it  for  the  stage. 
Have  you  ever  seen  a  play?" 

"No,  sir." 

"But  you  have  some  idea  what  they  are?" 

"Yes.  I  have  read  them.  Shakespeare  wrote 
quite  a  lot  of  that  kind  of  talking  pieces,  did  n't 
he?" 

Jasper  was  less  surprised  than  Yarnall.  "  At 
present  I  have  a  play  on  my  hands  which  is  a 
very  brilliant  and  promising  piece  of  work,  but 
which  I  have  been  unable  to  produce  for  lack  of 
a  heroine.  There  is  n't  an  actress  on  my  list  that 


Jane  179 

can  take  the  part  and  do  it  justice.  Now,  Miss 
Jane,  I  believe  that  with  some  training  you  could 
take  it  to  perfection.  My  wife  and  I  would  like 
to  take  you  to  New  York,  paying  all  your  ex- 
penses, of  course,  and  put  you  into  training  at 
once.  It  would  take  a  year's  hard  work  to  get 
you  fitted  for  the  part.  Then  next  fall  we  could 
bring  out  the  play  and  I  think  I  can  promise  you 
success  and  fame  and  wealth  in  no  small  meas- 
ure. I  don't  know  you  very  well;  I  don't  know 
whether  or  not  you  are  ambitious ;  but  I  do  know 
that  every  woman  must  love  beauty  and  ease 
and  knowledge  and  experience.  For  what  else," 
he  smiled,  "did  Eve  eat  the  apple?  All  these  you 
can  have  if  you  will  let  us  take  you  East.  Of 
course,  if  I  find  you  cannot  take  this  part,  I  will 
hold  myself  accountable  for  you.  I  will  not  let 
you  be  a  loser  in  any  way  by  the  experiment. 
With  your  beauty"  — Yarnall  fell  back  in  his 
chair  and  gaped  from  the  excited  speaker  to  the 
silent  listener  —  "and  your  extraordinary  voice, 
and  your  magnetism,  you  must  be  especially 
fitted  for  a  career  of  some  kind.  I  promise  to  find 
you  your  career." 

Every  drop  of  blood  had  fallen  from  Jane's 
face  and  the  rough  hands  on  her  knee  were  locked 
together. 


180  The  Estray 

"What  part,"  she  asked  in  a  quick,  low  voice, 
"is  this  that  you  think  I  could  learn  to  do?" 

Jasper  changed  his  position.  He  came  nearer 
and  spoke  more  rapidly.  "It  is  the  story  of  a  girl, 
a  savage  girl,  whom  a  man  takes  up  and  trains. 
He  trains  her  as  a  professional  might  train  a 
lioness.  It  is  a  passion  with  him  to  break  spirits 
and  shape  them  to  his  will.  He  trains  her  with 
coaxing  and  lashing  —  not  actual  lashing,  though 
1  believe  in  one  place  he  does  come  near  to  beat- 
ing her  —  and  he  gets  her  broken  so  that  she 
lies  at  his  feet  and  eats  out  of  his  hand.  All  this, 
you  understand,  while  he 's  an  exile  from  his  own 
world.  Then,  in  the  second  act,  —  that  is  the 
second  part  of  the  play,  —  he  takes  his  tamed 
lioness  back  to  civilization.  They  go  to  London 
and  there  the  woman  does  his  training  infinite 
credit.  She  is  extraordinarily  beautiful;  she  is 
civilized,  successful,  courted.  Her  eccentricities 
only  add  to  her  charm.  So  it  goes  on  very  prettily 
for  a  while.  Then  he  makes  a  mistake.  He  blun- 
ders very  badly.  He  gives  his  lioness  cause  for 
jealousy  and  —  to  come  to  the  point  —  she  flies 
at  his  throat.  You  see,  he  had  n't  really  tamed 
her.  She  was  under  the  skin,  a  lioness,  a  beast, 
at  heart." 

Jasper  had  been  absorbed  in  the  plot  and  had 


Jane  181 

not  noticed  Jane,  but  Yarnall  for  several  min- 
utes had  been  leaning  forward,  his  hands  tight- 
ened on  the  arms  of  his  chair.  The  instant  Jasper 
stopped  he  held  up  his  hand. 

"Quiet,  Jane,"  he  said  softly  as  a  man  might 
speak  to  a  plunging  horse.  "Steady!" 

Jane  got  to  her  feet.  She  was  very  white.  She 
put  up  her  hand  and  pressed  the  back  of  it  against 
her  forehead  and  from  under  this  hand  she 
looked  at  the  two  men  with  eyes  of  such  aston- 
ished pain  and  beauty  as  they  could  never  forget. 

"Yes,"  she  said  presently;  "that's  something 
1  could  do." 

At  once  Jasper  hastened  to  retrieve  his  error. 
"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry.  I've  been  horribly  clumsy. 
Do  forgive  me.  Do  let  me  explain.  I  did  n't  mean 
that  you  were  a  wild  — " 

She  let  the  hand  fall  and  held  it  up  to  stop  his 
speech.  "I'm  not  taking  offense,  Mr.  Morena," 
she  said.  "You  say  you  arrange  plays  and  that 
you  have  been  seeking  for  some  one  to  play  that 
girl,  that  lioness-girl  who  was  n't  rightly  tamed, 
though  the  man  had  done  his  worst  to  break 
her?" 

Jasper  nodded  with  a  puzzled,  anxious  air. 
For  all  his  skill  and  subtlety,  he  could  not  inter- 
pret her  tone. 


182  The  Estray 

"And  you  think  I'm  beautiful?" 

"My  dear  child,  I  know  you  are,"  said  he. 
"You  try  to  disguise  it.  And  I  know  that  in 
many  other  wav«  you  disguise  yourself.  I  think 
you  make  a  great  mistake.  Your  work  is  hard 
and  rough  - 

She  smiled.  "  I  'm  not  complaining  of  my  work," 
she  said.  "It's  rough  and  so  am  I.  Oh,  yes,  I'm 
real,  true  rough.  I  was  born  to  roughness  and 
raised  to  it.  I  'm  not  anything  I  don't  seem,  Mr. 
Morena.  I've  had  rough  travel  all  my  days,  only 
—  only — "  She  sat  down  again,  twisting  her 
hands  painfully  in  her  apron  and  bending  her 
face  down  from  the  sight  of  the  two  men.  The 
line  of  her  long,  bent  neck  was  a  beautiful  thing 
to  see.  She  spoke  low  and  rapidly,  holding  down 
her  emotion,  though  she  could  not  control  all 
the  exquisite  modulations  of  her  voice.  "There's 
only  one  part  of  my  travel  that  I  want  to  forget 
and  that's  the  one  smooth  bit.  And  it's  hateful 
to  me  and  you ' ve  been  reminding  me  of  it.  I  must 
tell  you  now  that  I  'd  rather  be  burnt  by  a  white- 
hot  iron"  —  here  she  gave  him  a  wide  and  hor- 
rified look  like  a  child  who  speaks  of  some  dread- 
ful remembered  punishment  —  "  than  do  that 
thing  you've  asked  of  me.  I  hate  everything 
you  Ve  been  telling  me  about.  I  don't  want  to  be 


Jane  183 

beautiful.  I  don't  want  any  one  to  be  telling  me 
such  things.  I  don't  want  to  be  any  different 
from  what  I  am  now.  This  is  my  real  self.  It  is. 
I  hate  beauty.  I  hate  it.  I  'm  not  good  enough  to 
love  it.  Beauty  and  learning  and — and  music — •" 

Her  head  had  been  bending  lower  and  lower, 
her  voice  rocking  under  its  weight  of  restrained 
anguish.  On  the  word  "music"  she  dropped  her 
head  to  her  knees  and  was  silent. 

"I  can't  talk  no  more,"  she  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment, and  she  stood  up  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

"I'll  be  d d!"  swore  Yarnall. 

But  Jasper  stood,  his  face  pale,  smiting  one 
hand  into  the  other. 

"I  feel  that  I,  at  least,  deserve  to  be,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FLIGHT 

(HERE  was  a  girl  named  Joan  who  followed 
Pierre  Landis  because  he  laid  his  hand  upon 
her  wrist,  and  there  was  another  Joan  who  fled 
up  the  mountain-side  at  sight  of  him,  as  though 
the  fire  that  had  once  touched  her  shoulder  had 
burnt  its  way  into  her  heart.  Then  there  was  a 
third  Joan,  a  Joan  astray.  It  was  this  Joan  that 
had  come  to  Lazy-Y  Ranch  and  had  cooked  for 
and  bullied  "the  outfit"  — a  Joan  of  set  face 
and  bitter  tongue,  whose  two  years'  lonely  battle 
with  life  had  twisted  her  youth  out  of  its  first 
comely  straightness.  In  Joan's  brief  code  of 
moral  law  there  was  one  sin  —  the  dealings  of  a 
married  woman  with  another  man.  When  Pierre's 
living  and  seeking  face  looked  up  toward  her 
where  she  stood  on  the  mountain-side  above 
Prosper 's  cabin,  she  felt  for  the  first  time  that 
she  had  sinned,  and  so,  for  the  first  time,  she 
was  a  sinner,  and  the  inevitable  agony  of  soul 
began. 

She  fled  and  hid  till  dark,  then  prowled  about 
till  she  knew  that  Wen  Ho  was  alone  in  the 


Flight  185 

house.  She  came  like  a  spirit  from  hell  and  ques- 
tioned him. 

"What  did  the  men  ask?  What  did  you  tell 
them?" 

The  men  had  asked  for  a  lady.  He  had  told 
them,  as  Prosper  had  once  instructed  him,  that 
no  lady  was  living  there,  that  the  man  had  just 
gone.  They  had  been  satisfied  and  had  left.  But 
Joan  was  still  in  terror.  Pierre  must  never  find 
her  now.  She  had  accepted  the  lie  of  a  stranger, 
had  left  her  husband  for  dead,  had  made  no  effort 
to  ascertain  the  truth,  and  had  "dealings  with 
another  man."  Joan  sat  in  judgment  and  con- 
demned herself  to  loneliness.  She  turned  herself 
out  from  all  her  old  life  as  though  she  had  been 
Cain,  and,  following  Wen  Ho's  trail  over  the 
mountains,  had  gone  into  strange  lands  to  work 
for  her  bread.  She  called  herself  "Jane"  and  her 
ferocity  was  the  armor  for  her  beauty.  Always 
she  worked  in  fear  of  Pierre's  arrival,  and,  as 
soon  as  she  had  saved  money  enough  for  further 
traveling,  she  moved  on.  She  worked  by  prefer- 
ence on  lonely  ranches  as  cook  or  harvester,  and 
it  was  after  two  years  of  such  life  that  she  had 
drifted  into  Yarnall's  kitchen.  She  was  then 
greatly  changed,  as  a  woman  who  works  to  the 
full  stretch  of  her  strength,  who  suffers  privation 


186  The  Estray 

and  hardship,  who  gives  no  thought  to  her  own 
youth  and  beauty,  and  who,  moreover,  suffers 
under  a  scourge  of  self -scorn  and  fear,  is  bound 
to  change.  Of  all  the  people  that  had  seen  her 
after  months  of  such  living,  Jasper  Morena  was 
the  only  one  to  find  her  beautiful.  But  with  his 
sensitive  observation  he  had  seen  through  the 
shell  to  the  sweetness  underneath;  for  surely 
Joan  was  sweet,  a  Friday's  child.  It  was  good 
that  Jasper  had  torn  the  skin  from  her  wound, 
good  that  he  had  broken  up  the  hardness  of  her 
heart.  She  left  him  and  Yarnall  that  afternoon 
and  went  away  to  her  cabin  in  the  trees  and  lay 
face  down  on  the  bare  boards  of  the  floor  and 
was  young  again.  Waves  of  longing  for  love  and 
beauty  and  adventure  flooded  her.  For  a  while 
she  had  been  very  beautiful  and  had  been  very 
passionately  loved;  for  a  while  she  had  been  sur- 
rounded by  beauty  and  taught  its  meanings.  She 
had  fled  from  it  all.  She  hated  it,  yes,  but  she 
longed  for  it  with  every  fiber  of  her  being.  The 
last  two  years  were  scalded  away.  She  was  Joan, 
who  had  loved  Pierre;  Joan,  whom  Prosper  Gael 
had  lover1. 

Toward  morning,  dawn  feeling  with  white 
fingers  through  the  pine  boughs  into  her  uncur- 
tained window,  Joan  stopped  her  weeping  and 


Flight  187 

stood  up.  She  was  very  tired  and  felt  as  though 
all  the  hardness  and  strength  had  been  beaten 
from  her  heart.  She  opened  her  door  and  looked 
at  pale  stars  and  a  still,  slowly  brightening  world. 
In  a  hollow  below  the  pines  a  stream  ran  and 
poured  its  hoarse,  hurrying  voice  into  the  silence. 
Joan  bent  under  the  branches,  undressed  and 
bathed.  The  icy  water  shocked  life  back  into  her 
spirit.  She  began  to  tingle  and  to  glow.  In  spite 
of  herself  she  felt  happier.  She  had  been  stony 
for  so  long,  neither  sorrowful  nor  glad;  now, 
after  the  night  of  sharp  pain,  she  was  aware  of 
the  gladness  of  morning.  She  came  up  from  her 
plunge,  glowing  and  beautiful,  with  loose,  wet 
hair. 

In  the  corral  the  men  were  watering  their 
teams;  above  them  on  the  edge  of  a  mesa,  against 
the  rosy  sky,  the  other  ponies,  out  all  night  on 
the  range,  were  trooping,  driven  by  a  cowboy 
who  darted  here  and  there  on  his  nimble  pony, 
giving  shrill  cries.  In  the  clear  air  every  syllable 
was  sharp  to  the  ear,  every  tint  and  line  sharp  to 
the  eye.  It  was  beautiful,  very  beautiful,  and  it 
was  near  and  dear  to  her,  native  to  her  —  this 
loveliness  of  quick  action,  of  inarticulate  calling 
to  dumb  beasts,  of  work,  of  simple,  often  repeated 
beginnings.  She  was  glad  that  she  was  working 


188  The  Estray 

with  her  hands.  She  twisted  up  her  hair  and  went 
over  to  the  ranch-house  where  she  began  soberly 
and  thankfully  to  light  her  kitchen  fire. 

It  was  after  breakfast,  two  or  three  mornings 
later,  when  a  stranger  on  a  chestnut  pony  rode 
into  Yarnall's  ranch,  tied  his  pony  to  a  tree,  and, 
striding  across  the  cobbled  square,  came  to 
knock  at  the  office  door.  At  the  moment,  Yarnall, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  house,  was  saying  fare- 
well to  his  guests,  and  helping  the  men  pile  the 
baggage  into  the  two-seated  wagon,  so  this  other 
visitor,  getting  no  answer  to  his  knock,  turned 
and  looked  about  the  court.  He  did  not,  it  was 
evident,  mind  waiting.  It  was  to  be  surmised 
from  the  look  of  him  that  he  was  used  to  it;  pa- 
tient and  not  to  be  discouraged  by  delay.  He  was 
a  very  brown  young  man  of  quite  astounding 
beauty  and  his  face  had  been  schooled  to  keen- 
ness and  restraint.  He  was  well-dressed,  very 
clean,  an  outdoor  man,  a  rider,  but  a  man  who 
had,  in  some  sense,  arrived.  He  had  the  inimit- 
able stamp  of  achievement.  He  had  been  hard 
driven  —  the  look  of  that,  too,  was  there;  he 
had  been  driven  to  more  than  ordinary  effort. 
One  of  the  men,  seeing  him,  walked  over  and 
spoke  respectfully. 

"You  want  to  see  Mr.  Yarnall?" 


THE  STRANGER  DROPPED  TO  HIS  HEELS,  SQUATTED, 
AND  ROLLED  A  CIGARETTE 


Flight  189 

"Yes,  sir."  The  man's  eyes  were  searching  the 
ranch-house  wistfully  again.  "I  would  like  to  see 
him  if  I  can.  I  have  some  questions  to  ask  him." 

"He's  round  the  house,  gettin'  rid  of  a  bunch 
of  dudes.  Some  job.  Both  hands  tied  up.  Will 
you  go  round  or  wait?*' 

The  stranger  dropped  to  his  heels,  squatted, 
and  rolled  a  cigarette. 

"I'll  wait,"  he  murmured.  "You  can  let  him 
know  when  the  dudes  make  their  get-away. 
He'll  get  round  to  me.  My  name?  It  won't  mean 
anything  to  him  —  Pierre  Landis." 

He  did  not  go  round  the  house,  and  Yarnall, 
being  very  busy  and  perturbed  for  some  time 
after  the  departure  of  his  guests,  did  not  get 
round  to  him  till  nearly  noon.  By  that  time  he 
was  sitting  on  the  step,  his  back  against  the  wall, 
still  smoking  and  still  wistfully  observant  of  his 
surroundings. 

He  stood  up  when  Yarnall  came. 

"Sorry,"  said  the  latter;  "that  fool  boy  did  n't 
tell  me  you  were  here  till  ten  minutes  ago.  Come 
in.  You  '11  stop  for  dinner  —  if  we  get  any  to- 
day." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Pierre. 

He  came  in  and  talked  and  stayed  for  dinner. 
Yarnall  was  used  to  the  Western  fashion  of  doing 


190  The  Estray 

business.  He  knew  that  it  would  be  a  long  time 
before  the  young  man  would  come  to  his  point. 
But  the  Englishman  was  in  no  hurry,  for  he  liked 
his  visitor  and  found  his  talk  diverting  enough. 
Landis  had  been  in  Alaska  —  a  lumber  camp. 
He  had  risen  to  be  foreman  and  now  he  was  off 
for  a  vacation,  but  had  to  go  back  soon.  He  had 
been  everywhere.  It  seemed  to  Yarnall  that  the 
stranger  had  visited  every  ranch  in  the  Rocky 
Mountain  belt. 

After  dinner,  strolling  beside  his  host  toward 
his  horse,  Pierre  spoke,  and  before  Yarnall  had 
heard  a  word  he  knew  that  the  long  delay  had 
been  caused  by  suppressed  emotion.  Pierre, 
when  he  did  ask  his  question,  was  white  to  the  lips. 

"I've  taken  a  lot  of  your  time,"  he  said  slowly. 
"  I  came  to  ask  you  about  some  one.  I  heard  that 
you  had  a  woman  on  your  ranch,  a  woman  who 
came  in  and  did  n't  give  you  any  history.  I  want 
to  see  her  if  I  may."  He  was  actually  fighting  an 
unevenness  of  breath,  and  Yarnall,  unemotional 
as  he  was,  was  gripped  with  sympathetic  sus- 
pense. "I  want,"  stammered  the  young  man,  "to 
know  her  name." 

Yarnall  swore.  "Her  name,  as  she  gave  it," 
said  he,  "  is  Jane.  But,  my  boy,  you  can't  see  her. 
She  left  this  morning." 


Flight  191 

Pierre  raised  a  white,  tense  face. 

"Left?"  He  turned  as  if  he  would  run  after 
her. 

"Yes,  sir.  These  people  I've  had  here  took  her 
away  with  them.  That  is,  they've  been  urging 
her  to  go,  but  she'd  refused.  Then,  suddenly, 
this  morning,  just  as  they  were  putting  the 
trunks  in,  up  came  Jane,  white  as  chalk,  asking 
them  to  take  her  with  them,  said  she  must  go. 
Well,  sir,  they  rigged  her  up  with  some  traveling 
clothes  and  drove  away  with  her.  That  was  six 
hours  ago.  By  now  they're  in  the  train,  bound 
for  New  York." 

Yarnall's  guest  looked  at  him  without  speak- 
ing, and  Yarnall  nervously  went  on,  "She's  been 
with  us  about  six  months,  Landis,  and  I  don't 
know  anything  about  her.  She  was  tall,  gray  eyes, 
black  hair,  slow  speaking,  and  with  the  kind  of 
voice  you'd  be  apt  to  notice  .  .  .  yes,  I  see  she's 
the  girl  you  've  been  looking  for.  I  can  give  you 
the  New  York  people's  address,  but  first,  for 
Jane's  sake,  —  I  'm  a  pretty  good  friend  of  hers, 
I  think  a  lot  of  Jane,  —  I  '11  have  to  know  what 
you  want  with  her  —  what  she  is  to  you." 

Pierre's  pupils  widened  till  they  all  but  swal- 
lowed the  smoke-colored  iris. 

"She  is  my  wife,"  he  said. 


192  The  Estray 

Again  Yarnall  swore.  But  he  lit  a  cigarette  and 
took  his  time  about  answering.  "Well,  sir,"  he 
said,  "you  must  excuse  me,  but  —  it  was  because 
she  saw  you,  I  take  it,  that  Jane  cut  off  this 
morning.  That 's  clear.  Now,  I  don't  know  what 
would  make  a  girl  run  off  from  her  husband.  She 
might  have  any  number  of  reasons,  bad  and  good, 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  it  would  be  a  pretty 
strong  one  that  would  make  a  girl  run  off,  with 
a  look  such  as  she  wore,  from  a  man  like  you. 
Did  you  treat  her  well,  Landis?" 

It  had  the  effect  of  a  lash  taken  by  a  penitent. 
The  man  shrank  a  little,  whitened,  endured.  "I 
can't  tell  you  how  I  treated  her,"  he  said  in  a 
dangerous  voice;  "it  don't  bear  tellin'.  But  —  I 
want  her  back.  I  was  —  I  was  —  that  was  three 
years  ago;  I  am  more  like  a  man  now.  You'll 
give  me  the  people's  name,  their  address?  ..." 

Pierre  laid  his  hand  on  the  older  man's  wrist 
and  gave  it  a  queer  urgent  and  beseeching  shake. 

After  a  moment  of  searching  scrutiny,  Yarnall 
bent  his  head. 

"Very  well,"  said  he  shortly;  "come  in." 


CHAPTER  V 
LUCK'S  PLAY 

A  YOUNG  man  who  had  just  landed  in  New 
York  from  one  of  the  big,  adventurous 
transatlantic  liners  hailed  a  taxicab  and  was 
quickly  drawn  away  into  the  glitter  and  gayety 
of  a  bright  winter  morning.  He  sat  forward 
eagerly,  looking  at  everything  with  the  air  of  a 
lad  on  a  holiday.  He  was  a  young  man,  but  he 
was  not  in  his  first  youth,  and  under  a  heavy 
sunburn  he  was  pale  and  a  trifle  worn,  but  there 
was  about  him  a  look  of  being  hard  and  very 
much  alive.  Under  a  broad  brow  there  were 
hawk  eyes  of  greenish  gray,  a  delicate  beak,  a 
mouth  and  chin  of  cleverness.  It  was  an  inter- 
esting face  and  looked  as  though  it  had  seen 
interesting  things.  In  fact,  Prosper  Gael  had  just 
returned  from  his  three  months  of  ambulance 
service  in  France,  and  it  was  the  extraordinary 
success  of  his  play,  "The  Leopardess,"  that  had 
chiefly  brought  him  back. 

"Dear  Luck,"  his  manager  had  written,  using 
the  college  title  which  Prosper's  name  and  un- 
varying good  fortune  suggested,  "you'd  better 


194  The  Estray 

come  back  and  gather  up  some  of  these  laurels 
that  are  smothering  us  all.  The  time  is  very 
favorable  for  the  disappearance  of  your  anonym- 
ity. I,  for  one,  find  it  more  and  more  difficult  to 
keep  the  secret.  So  far,  not  even  your  star  knows 
it.  She  calls  you  'Mr.  Luck'  ...  to  that  extent 
I  have  been  indiscreet.  ..." 

Prosper  had  another  letter  in  his  pocket,  a 
letter  that  he  had  re-read  many  times,  always 
with  an  uneasy  conflict  of  emotions.  He  was  in  a 
sort  of  hot-cold  humor  over  it,  in  a  fever-fit  that 
had  a  way  of  turning  into  lassitude.  He  post- 
poned analysis  indefinitely.  Meanwhile  his  eyes 
searched  the  bright,  cold  city,  its  crowds,  its 
traffics,  its  windows  —  most  of  all,  its  placards, 
and,  not  far  to  seek,  there  were  the  posters  of 
"The  Leopardess."  He  leaned  out  to  study  one 
of  them;  a  tall,  wild-eyed  woman  crouched  to 
spring  upon  a  man  who  stared  at  her  in  fear. 
Prosper  dropped  back  with  a  gleaming  smile  of 
amused  excitement.  "They've  made  it  look  like 
cheap  melodrama,"  he  said  to  himself;  "and  yet 
it 's  a  good  thing,  the  best  thing  I  've  ever  done. 
Yet  they  will  vulgarize  the  whole  idea  with  their 
infernal  notions  of  'what  the  public  wants.' 
Morena  is  as  bad  as  the  rest  of  them!"  He  ex- 
pressed disgust,  but  underneath  he  was  aglow 


Luck's  Play  195 

with  pride  and  interest.  "There's  a  performance 
to-night.  I'll  dine  with  Jasper.  I'll  have  to  see 
Betty  first  ..."  His  thoughts  trailed  off  and  he 
fell  into  that  hot-cold  confusion,  that  uncom- 
fortable scorching  fog  of  mood.  The  cab  turned 
into  Fifth  Avenue  and  became  a  scale  in  the 
creeping  serpent  of  vehicles  that  glided,  paused, 
and  glided  again  past  the  thronged  pavements. 
Prosper  contrasted  everything  with  the  grim 
courage  and  high-pitched  tragedy  of  France. 
He  could  not  but  wonder  at  the  detached  frivol- 
ity of  these  money-spenders,  these  spinners  in 
the  sun.  How  soon  would  the  shadow  fall  upon 
them  too  and  with  what  change  of  countenance 
would  they  look  up!  To  him  the  joyousness 
seemed  almost  childish  and  yet  he  bathed  his 
fagged  spirit  in  it.  How  high  the  white  clouds 
sailed,  how  blue  was  the  midwinter  sky!  How 
the  buildings  towered,  how  quickly  the  people 
stepped !  Here  were  the  pretty  painted  faces,  the 
absurd  silk  stockings,  the  tripping,  exquisitely 
booted  feet,  the  swinging  walk,  the  tall,  up- 
springing  bodies  of  the  women  he  remembered. 
He  regarded  them  with  impersonal  delight,  un- 
tinged  by  any  of  his  usual  cynicism. 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  Prosper,  obedient 
to  a  telephone  call  from  Betty,  presented  himself 


196  The  Estray 

at  the  door  of  Morena's  house,  just  east  of  the 
Park,  off  Fifth  Avenue;  a  very  beautiful  house 
where  the  wealthy  Jew  had  indulged  his  passion 
for  exquisite  things.  Prosper  entered  its  rich  dim- 
ness with  a  feeling  of  oppression  —  that  unan- 
alyzed  mood  of  hot  and  cold  feeling  intensified  to 
an  almost  unbearable  degree.  In  the  large  carved 
and  curtained  drawing-room  he  waited  for  Betty. 
The  tea-things  were  prepared ;  there  would  be  no 
further  need  of  service  until  Betty  should  ring. 
Everything  was  arranged  for  an  uninterrupted 
tete-a-tete.  Prosper  stood  near  an  ebony  table, 
his  shoulder  brushed  by  tall,  red  roses,  and  felt 
his  nerves  tighten  and  his  pulses  hasten  in  their 
beat.  "The  tall  child  ...  the  tall  child  .  .  ."  he 
had  called  her  by  that  name  so  often  and  never 
without  a  swift  and  stabbing  memory  of  Joan, 
and  of  Joan's  laughter  which  he  had  silenced. 

He  took  out  the  letter  he  had  lately  received 
from  Betty  and  re-read  it  and,  as  he  read,  a  deep 
line  cut  between  his  eyes.  "You  say  you  will  not 
come  back  unless  I  can  give  you  more  than  I 
have  ever  given  you  in  the  past.  You  say  you 
intend  to  cut  yourself  free,  that  I  have  failed  you 
too  often,  that  you  are  starved  on  hope.  I  'm  not 
going  to  ask  much  more  patience  of  you.  I  failed 
you  that  first  time  because  I  lost  courage;  the 


Luck's  Play  197 

second  time,  fate  failed  us.  How  could  I  think 
that  Jasper  would  get  well  when  the  doctors  told 
me  that  I  must  n't  allow  myself  even  a  shadow 
of  hope!  Now,  I  think  that  Jasper,  himself,  is 
preparing  my  release.  This  all  sounds  like  some- 
thing in  a  book.  That 's  because  you  've  hurt  me. 
I  feel  frozen  up.  I  could  n't  bear  it  if  now,  just 
when  the  door  is  opening,  you  failed  me.  Prosper, 
you  are  my  lover  for  always,  are  n't  you?  I  have 
to  believe  that  to  go  on  living.  You  are  the  one 
thing  in  my  wretched  life  that  has  n't  lost  its 
value.  Now,  read  this  carefully;  I  am  going  to  be 
brutal.  Jasper  has  been  unfaithful  to  me.  I  know 
it.  I  have  sufficient  evidence  to  prove  it  in  a  law 
court  and  I  shall  not  hesitate  to  get  a  divorce. 
Tear  this  up,  please.  Now,  of  all  times,  we  must 
be  extraordinarily  careful.  There  has  never  been 
a  whisper  against  us  and  there  must  n't  be. 
Jasper  must  not  suspect.  A  counter-suit  would 
ruin  my  life.  I  must  talk  it  over  with  you.  I  '11  see 
you  once  alone  —  just  once  —  before  I  leave 
Jasper  and  begin  the  suit.  We  must  have  patience 
for  just  this  last  bit.  It  will  seem  very  long  ..." 
Prosper  folded  the  letter.  He  was  conscious  of 
a  faint  feeling  of  sickness,  of  fear.  Then  he  heard 
Betty's  step  across  the  marble  pavement  of  the 
hall.  She  parted  the  heavy  curtains,  drew  them 


198  The  Estray 

together  behind  her,  and  stood,  pale  with  joy, 
opening  and  shutting  her  big  eyes.  Then  she  came 
to  meet  him,  held  him  back,  listening  for  any 
sound  that  might  predict  interruption,  and  gave 
herself  to  his  arms.  She  was  no  longer  pale  when 
he  let  her  go.  She  went  a  few  steps  away  and 
stood  with  her  hands  before  her  face,  then  she 
went  to  sit  by  the  tea-table.  They  were  both 
flushed.  Betty's  eyes  were  shining  under  their 
fluttering  lids.  Prosper  rejoiced  in  his  own  emo- 
tion. The  mental  fog  had  lifted  and  the  feeling  of 
faintness  was  gone. 

'  You  've  decided  not  to  breakaway  altogether, 
then?"  she  asked,  giving  him  a  quick  glance. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Not  if  what  you  have 
written  me  is  true.  I've  had  such  letters  from 
you  before  and  I've  grown  very  suspicious.  Are 
you  sure  this  time?"  He  laid  stress  upon  his  bit- 
terness. It  was  his  one  weapon  against  her  and 
he  had  been  sharpening  it  with  a  vague  purpose. 

"Oh,"  said  Betty,  speaking  low  and  furtively, 
"Jasper  is  fairly  caught.  I  have  a  reliable  witness 
in  the  girl's  maid.  There  is  no  doubt  of  his  guilt, 
Prosper,  none.  Everyone  is  talking  of  it.  He  has 
been  perfectly  open  in  his  attentions." 

Every  minute  Betty  looked  younger  and  pret- 
tier, more  provoking.  Her  child-mouth  with  its 


Luck's  Play  199 

clever  smile  was  bright  as  though  his  kiss  had 
painted  it. 

"Who  is  the  girl?"  asked  Prosper.  He  was 
deeply  flushed.  Being  capable  of  simultaneous 
points  of  view,  he  had  been  stung  by  that  cool 
phrase  of  Betty's  concerning  "  Jasper's  guilt." 

"I'll  tell  you  in  a  moment.  Did  you  destroy 
my  letter?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Oh,  Prosper,  please!" 

He  took  it  out,  tore  it  up,  and  walking  over  to 
the  open  fire,  burned  the  papers.  He  came  back 
to  his  tea.  "Well,  Betty?" 

"The  girl,"  said  Betty,  "is  the  star  in  your 
play,  'The  Leopardess,'  the  girl  that  Jasper 
picked  up  two  Septembers  ago  out  West.  He  has 
written  to  you  about  her.  She  was  a  cook,  if  you 
please,  a  hideous  creature,  but  Jasper  saw  at 
once  what  there  was  in  her.  She  has  made  the 
play.  You  '11  have  to  acknowledge  that  yourself 
when  you  see  her.  She  is  wonderful.  And,  partly 
owing  to  the  trouble  I ' ve  taken  with  her,  the  girl 
is  beautiful.  One  would  n't  have  thought  it  pos- 
sible. She  is  not  charming  to  me,  she 's  not  in  the 
least  subtle,  It's  odd  that  she  should  have  had 
such  an  effect  upon  Jasper,  of  all  men  ..." 

Prosper  sipped  his  tea  and  listened.  He  looked 


200  The  Estray 

at  her  and  was  bitterly  conscious  that  the  excite- 
ment which  had  pleased  and  surprised  him  was 
dying  out.  That  faintness  again  assailed  his 
spirit.  He  was  feeling  stifled,  ashamed,  bored. 
Yes,  that  was  it,  bored.  That  life  of  service  and 
battle-danger  in  France  had  changed  him  more 
than  he  had  realized  till  now.  He  was  more  sim- 
ple, more  serious,  more  moral,  in  a  certain  sense. 
He  was  like  a  man  who,  having  denied  the  exist- 
ence of  Apollyon,  has  come  upon  him  face  to  face 
and  has  been  burnt  by  his  breath.  Such  a  man  is 
inevitably  moral.  All  this  long,  intricate  intrigue 
with  the  wife  of  a  man  who  called  him  friend, 
seemed  to  him  horribly  unworthy.  If  Betty  had 
been  a  great  lover,  if  she  had  not  lost  courage  at 
the  eleventh  hour  and  left  him  to  face  that  ter- 
rible winter  in  Wyoming,  then  their  passion  might 
have  justified  itself:  but  now  there  was  a  stale- 
ness  in  their  relationship.  He  hated  the  thought 
of  the  long  divorce  proceedings,  of  the  decent 
interval,  of  the  wedding,  of  the  married  life.  He 
had  never  really  wanted  that.  And  now,  in  the 
ebb  of  his  passion,  how  could  he  force  himself  to 
take  her  when  he  had  learned  to  live  more  keenly, 
more  completely  without  her!  He  would  have 
to  take  her,  to  spend  his  days  and  nights  with 
her,  to  travel  with  her.  She  would  want  to  visit 


Luck's  Play  201 

that  gay,  little  forsaken  house  in  a  Wyoming 
canon.  With  vividness  he  saw  a  girl  lying  prone 
on  a  black  rug  before  a  dancing  fire,  her  hair  all 
fallen  about  her  face,  her  secret  eyes  lifted  im- 
patiently from  the  book-  "You  had  ought  to 
be  writin',  Mr.  Gael  .  .  ." 

"What  are  you  smiling  for,  Prosper?"  Betty 
asked  sharply. 

He  looked  up,  startled  and  confused.  "Sorry. 
I've  got  into  beastly  absent-minded  habits.  Is 
that  Morena?" 

Jasper  opened  the  curtains  and  came  in,  greet- 
ing Prosper  in  his  stately,  charming  fashion. 
"To-night,  "he  said,  "we'll  show  you  a  leopardess 
worth  looking  at,  won't  we,  Betty?  But  first  you 
must  tell  us  about  your  own  experience.  You 
look  wonderfully  fit,  does  n't  he,  Betty?  And 
changed.  They  say  the  life  out  there  stamps  a 
man,  and  they're  right.  It's  taken  some  of  that 
winged-demon  look  out  of  your  face,  Prosper, 
put  some  soul  into  it." 

He  talked  and  Betty  laughed,  showing  not  the 
slightest  evidence  of  effort,  though  the  soul  Jas- 
per had  seen  in  Prosper's  face  felt  shriveled  for 
her  treachery.  Prosper  wondered  if  she  could  be 
right  in  her  surmise  about  Jasper.  The  Jew  was 
infinitely  capable  of  dissimulation,  but  there  was 


202  The  Estray 

a  clarity  of  look  and  smile  that  filled  Prosper 
with  doubts.  And  the  eyes  he  turned  upon  his 
wife  were  quite  as  apparently  as  ever  the  eyes  of 
a  disappointed  man. 

So  absorbed  was  he  in  such  observations  that 
he  found  it  intolerably  difficult  to  fix  his  attention 
on  the  talk.  Jasper's  fluency  seemed  to  ripple 
senselessly  about  his  brain. 

"You  must  consent  to  one  thing,  Luck:  you 
must  allow  me  to  choose  my  own  time  for  an- 
nouncing the  authorship."  This  found  its  way 
partially  to  his  intelligence  and  he  gave  careless 
assent. 

"Oh,  whenever  you  like,  as  soon  as  I've  had 
my  fun." 

"Of  course  — "  Morena  was  thoughtful  for  an 
instant.  "How  would  it  do  for  me  to  leave  it  with 
Melton,  the  business  manager?  Eh?  Suppose  I 
phone  him  and  talk  it  over  a  little.  He'll  want 
to  wait  till  toward  the  end  of  the  run.  He's  keen; 
has  just  the  commercial  sense  of  the  born  adver- 
tiser. Let  him  choose  the  moment.  Then  we  can 
feel  sure  of  getting  the  right  one.  Will  you, 
Luck?" 

"If  you  advise  it.  You  ought  to  know." 

'You  see,  I'm  so  confoundedly  busy,  so  many 
irons  in  the  fire,  I  might  just  miss  the  psychic 


Luck's  Play  203 

moment.  I  think  Melton's  the  man  —  I  '11  call 
him  up  to-night  before  we  leave.  Then  I  won't 
forget  it  and  I'll  be  sure  to  catch  him  too." 

Again  Prosper  vaguely  agreed  and  promptly 
forgot  that  he  had  given  his  permission.  Later, 
there  came  an  agonizing  moment  when  he  would 
have  given  the  world  to  recall  his  absent,  care- 
less words. 

With  an  effort  Prosper  kept  his  poise,  with  an 
effort,  always  increasing,  he  talked  to  Jasper 
while  Betty  dressed,  and  kept  up  his  end  at  din- 
ner. The  muscles  round  his  mouth  felt  tight  and 
drawn,  his  throat  was  dry.  He  was  glad  when 
they  got  into  the  limousine  and  started  theater- 
wards.  It  had  been  a  long  time  since  he  had 
been  put  through  this  particular  ordeal  and  he 
was  out  of  practice. 

They  reached  the  house  just  as  the  lights  went 
out.  Prosper  was  amused  at  his  own  intense 
excitement.  "I  didn't  know  I  was  still  such  a 
kid,"  he  said,  flashing  a  smile,  the  first  spontane- 
ous one  he  had  given  her,  upon  Betty  who  sat 
beside  him  in  the  proscenium  box. 

The  success  of  his  novel  had  had  no  such  effect 
upon  him  as  this.  It  was  entrancing  to  think  that 
in  a  few  moments  the  words  he  had  written  would 
come  to  him  clothed  in  various  voices,  the  people 


204  The  Estray 

his  brain  had  pictured  would  move  before  him  in 
flesh  and  blood,  doing  what  he  had  ordained  that 
they  should  do.  When  the  curtain  rose,  he  had 
forgotten  his  personal  problem,  had  forgotten 
Betty.  He  leaned  forward,  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  his  chin  in  his  hand. 

The  scene  was  of  a  tropical  island,  palms,  a 
strip  of  turquoise  sea.  A  girl  pushed  aside  the 
great  fronds  of  ferns  and  stepped  down  to  the 
beach.  At  her  appearance  the  audience  broke 
into  applause.  She  was  a  tall  girl,  her  stained  legs 
and  arms  bare  below  her  ragged  dress,  her  black 
hair  hung  wild  and  free  about  her  face  and 
neck.  As  the  daughter  of  a  native  mother  and 
an  English  father,  her  beauty  had  been  made 
to  seem  both  Saxon  and  savage.  Stained  and 
painted,  darkened  below  the  great  gray  eyes, 
Joan  with  her  brows  and  her  classic  chin  and 
throat,  Joan  with  her  secret,  dangerous  eyes  and 
lithe,  long  body,  made  an  arresting  picture  enough 
against  the  setting  of  vivid  green  and  blue.  She 
moved  slowly,  deliberately,  naturally,  and  stood, 
hands  on  hips,  to  watch  a  ship  sail  into  the  tur- 
quoise harbor.  It  was  not  like  acting,  she  seemed 
really  to  look.  She  threw  back  her  head  and  gave 
a  call.  It  was  the  name  of  her  stage  brother,  but 
it  came  from  her  deep  chest  and  through  her  long 


Luck's  Play  205 

column  of  a  throat  like  music.  Prosper  brought 
down  his  hands  on  the  railing  before  him,  half 
pushed  himself  up,  turned  a  blind  look  upon 
Betty,  who  laid  a  restraining  hand  upon  his  arm. 

He  whispered  a  name,  which  Betty  could  not 
make  out,  then  he  sat  down,  moistened  his  lips 
with  his  tongue,  and  sat  through  the  entire  first 
act  and  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  As  the  curtain 
went  down  he  stood  up. 

"I  must  go  out,"  he  said,  and  hesitated  in  the 
back  of  the  box  till  Jasper  came  over  to  him  with 
an  anxious  question.  Then  he  began  to  stammer 
nervously.  "  Don't  tell  her,  Jasper,  don't  tell  her." 

"Tell  her  what,  man?  Tell  whom?"  Jasper 
gave  him  a  shake.  "Don't  you  like  Jane?  Is  n't 
she  wonderful?" 

"Yes,  yes,  extraordinary!" 

"Made  for  the  part?" 

"No."  Prosper's  face  twisted  into  a  smile. 
"No.  The  part  came  second,  she  was  there  first. 
Morena,  promise  me  you  won't  tell  her  who  wrote 
the  play." 

"Look  here,  Prosper,  suppose  you  tell  me 
what's  wrong.  Have  you  seen  a  ghost?" 

Prosper  laughed;  then,  seeing  Betty,  her  face 
a  rigid  question,  he  struggled  to  lay  hands  upon 
his  self-control. 


206  The  Estray 

"Something  very  astonishing  has  happened, 
Morena,  —  one  of  those  '  things  not  dreamt  of  in 
a  man's  philosophy.'  I  can't  tell  you.  Have  you 
arranged  for  me  to  meet  Jane  West?" 

"After  the  show,  yes,  at  supper." 

"But  not  as  the  author?" 

"No.  I  was  waiting  for  you  to  tell  her  that." 

"She  must  n't  know.  And  —  and  I  can't  meet 
her  that  way,  at  supper."  Again  he  made  visible 
efforts  at  self-control.  "Don't  tell  Betty  what  a 
fool  I  am.  I'll  go  out  a  minute.  I'll  be  all  right." 

Betty  was  coming  toward  them.  He  gave  a 
painful  smile  and  fled. 


CHAPTER  VI 
JOAN  AND  PROSPER 

THE  situation  was  no  doubt  an  extraordinary, 
an  unimaginable  one,  but  it  had  to  be  met. 
When  he  returned  to  the  box,  Prosper  had  him- 
self in  hand,  and,  sitting  a  little  farther  back 
than  before,  he  watched  the  second  act  with  a 
sufficiency  of  outward  calm. 

This  part  was  the  most  severe  test  of  his  com- 
posure, for  he  had  fashioned  it  almost  in  detail 
upon  that  idyll  in  a  canon.  There  were  even 
speeches  of  Joan's  that  he  had  used.  To  sit  here 
and  watch  Joan  herself  go  through  it,  while  he 
looked  on,  was  an  exciting  form  of  torment.  The 
setting  was  different,  tropical  instead  of  Northern, 
and  the  half -native  heroine  was  more  passionate, 
more  emotional,  more  animal  than  Joan.  Never- 
theless, the  drama  was  a  repetition.  As  Prosper 
had  laid  his  trap  for  Joan,  silently,  subtly  under- 
mining her  whole  mental  structure,  using  her 
loneliness,  playing  upon  the  artist  soul  of  her,  so 
did  this  Englishman  lay  his  trap  for  Zona.  He 
was  more  cruel  than  Prosper,  rougher,  neces- 
sarily more  dramatic,  but  there  was  all  the 


208  The  Estray 

essence  of  the  original  drama,  the  ensnarement 
of  a  simple,  direct  mind  by  a  complex  and  skill- 
ful one.  Joan's  surrender,  Prosper's  victory,  were 
there.  He  wondered  how  Joan  could  act  it,  play 
the  part  in  cold  blood.  Now  he  was  condemned 
to  live  in  his  own  imagination  through  Joan's 
tragedy.  There  was  that  first  pitifulness  of  a 
tamed  and  broken  spirit;  then  later,  in  London, 
the  agony  of  loneliness,  of  separation,  of  gradual 
awakening  to  the  change  in  her  master's  heart. 
Prosper  had  written  the  words,  but  it  was  Joan 
who,  with  her  voice,  the  music  of  memory-shaken 
heart-strings,  made  the  words  alive  and  mean- 
ingful. Others  in  the  audience  might  wonder  over 
the  girl's  ability  to  interpret  this  unusual  experi- 
ence, to  make  it  natural,  human,  inevitable.  But 
Prosper  did  not  wonder.  He  knew  that  simply 
she  forced  herself  to  re-live  this  most  painful 
part  of  her  own  life  and  to  re-live  it  articulately. 
What,  in  God's  name,  had  induced  her  to  do  it? 
Necessity?  Poverty?  Morena?  All  at  once  he 
remembered  Betty's  belief,  that  Joan  was  the 
manager's  mistress  —  his  wild,  beautiful  Joan, 
Joan  the  creation  of  his  own  wizardry.  This 
thought  gave  him  such  pain  that  he  whitened. 

"Prosper,"  murmured  Betty,  "y°u  must  tell 
me  what  is  wrong.  Evidently  your  nerves  are 


Joan  and  Prosper  209 

in  bad  shape.  Is  the  excitement  too  much  for 

you?" 

"I  believe  it  is,"  he  said,  avoiding  her  eyes  and 
moving  stiff,  white  lips;  "I've  never  seen  such 
acting.  I  —  I —  Morena  says  he  '11  let  me  see  her 
in  her  dressing-room  afterwards.  You  see,  Betty, 
I'm  badly  shaken  up." 

"Ye-es,"  drawled  Betty,  and  looked  at  him 
through  narrowed  lids,  and  she  sat  with  this  look 
on  her  face  and  with  her  fingers  locked,  when 
Prosper,  not  giving  her  further  notice,  followed 
Morena  out. 

"Jasper,"  —  Prosper  held  his  friend  back  in 
the  middle  of  a  passage  that  led  to  the  dressing- 
rooms,  -  "I  want  very  particularly  to  see  Miss 
West  alone.  I  am  very  much  moved  by  her  per- 
formance and  I  want  to  tell  her  so.  Also,  I  want 
her  to  express  herself  naturally  with  no  idea  of 
my  being  the  author  of  the  play  and  without  the 
presence  of  her  manager.  Will  you  just  ask  if  she 
will  see  a  friend  of  yours  —  alone?" 

Jasper  smiled  his  subtle  smile.  "Of  course, 
Prosper.  It's  all  as  clear  as  daylight." 

Prosper  did  not  notice  the  Jew's  intelligent 
expression.  He  was  too  much  absorbed  in  his  own 
excitement.  In  a  moment  he  would  be  with  Joan 
—  Joan,  his  love  of  winter  nights! 


210  The  Estray 

Morena  tapped  upon  a  door.  A  maid  half- 
opened  it. 

"Ask  Miss  West,  please,  if  she  will  see  a 
friend  of  Mr.  Morena's.  Tell  her  I  particularly 
wish  her  to  give  him  a  private  interview."  He 
scribbled  a  line  on  a  card  and  the  maid  took 
it  in. 

In  five  minutes,  during  which  the  two  men 
waited  silently,  she  came  back. 

"Miss  West  will  see  your  friend,  sir." 

"Ah!  Then  I'll  take  myself  off.  Prosper,  will 
you  join  Betty  and  me  at  supper?" 

"No,  thanks.  I'll  have  my  brief  interview  with 
Miss  West  and  then  go  home,  if  you'll  forgive 
me.  I  'm  about  all  in.  New  York 's  too  much  for 
a  man  just  home  from  the  front." 

Jasper  laid  his  hand  for  a  moment  on  Prosper's 
shoulder,  smiled,  shrugged,  and  turned  away. 
Prosper  waited  till  his  friend  was  out  of  sight  and 
hearing,  then  knocked  and  was  admitted  to  the 
dressing-room  of  Miss  Jane  West. 

She  had  not  changed  from  the  evening  dress 
she  had  worn  in  the  last  scene  nor  had  she  yet 
got  rid  of  her  make-up.  She  was  sitting  in  a  nar- 
row-backed chair  that  had  been  turned  away 
from  the  dressing-table.  The  maid  was  putting 
away  some  costumes. 


Joan  and  Prosper 

Prosper  walked  half  across  the  room  and 
stopped. 

"Miss  West,"  he  said  quietly. 

She  stood  up.  The  natural  color  left  her  face 
ghastly  with  patches  of  paint  and  daubs  of  black. 
She  threw  back  her  head  and  said,  "Prosper!" 
just  above  her  breath. 

"Go  out,  Henrietta."  This  was  spoken  to  the 
maid  in  the  voice  of  Jane  the  virago  and  Henri- 
etta fled. 

At  sight  of  Joan,  Prosper  had  won  back  in- 
stantly his  old  poise,  his  old  feeling  of  ascendancy. 

"Joan,  Joan,"  he  said  gently;  "was  ever  any- 
thing so  strange?  Why  did  n't  you  let  me  know? 
Why  did  n't  you  answer  my  letters?  Why  did  n't 
you  take  my  money?  I  have  suffered  greatly 
on  your  account." 

Joan  laughed.  Four  years  ago  she  would  not 
have  been  capable  of  this  laugh,  and  Prosper 
started. 

"I  wrote  again  and  again,"  he  said  passion- 
ately. "Wen  Ho  told  me  that  you  had  gone,  that 
he  did  n't  know  anything  about  your  plans.  I 
went  out  to  Wyoming,  to  our  house.  I  scoured 
the  country  for  you.  Did  you  know  that?" 

"No,"  said  Joan  slowly,  "I  did  n't  know  that. 
But  it  makes  no  difference  to  me." 


The  Estray 

They  were  still  standing  a  few  paces  apart,  too 
intent  upon  their  inner  tumult  to  heed  any  out- 
ward situation.  She  lowered  her  head  in  that 
dangerous  way  of  hers,  looking  up  at  him  from 
under  her  brows.  Her  color  had  returned  and  the 
make-up  had  a  more  natural  look. 

"Maybe  you  did  write,  maybe  you  did  send 
money,  maybe  you  did  come  back  —  I  don't  care 
anything  for  all  that."  She  made  a  gesture  as  if 
to  sweep  something  away.  "The  day  after  you 
left  me  in  that  house,  Pierre,  my  husband,  came 
up  the  trail.  He  was  taking  after  me.  He  meant 
to  fetch  me  home.  You  told  me"  — she  began 
to  tremble  so  violently  that  the  jewels  on  her  neck 
clicked  softly  —  "you  told  me  he  was  dead." 

Prosper  came  closer,  she  moving  back,  till, 
striking  the  chair,  she  sat  down  on  it  and  looked 
up  at  him  with  her  changed  and  embittered  eyes. 

"Would  you  have  gone  back  to  him,  Joan 
Landis,  after  he  had  tied  you  up  and  branded 
your  shoulder  with  his  cattlebrand?" 

"What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  she  asked, 
her  voice  lifting  on  a  wave  of  anger.  "That  was 
between  my  man  and  me.  That  was  not  for  you 
to  judge.  He  loved  me.  It  was  through  loving  me 
too  much,  too  ignorantly,  that  he  hurt  me  so." 
She  choked.  "But  you  — " 


Joan  and  Prosper  213 

"Joan,"  said  Prosper,  and  he  laid  his  hand  on 
her  cold  and  rigid  fingers,  "I  loved  you  too.'* 

She  was  still  and  stiff.  After  a  long  silence  she 
seemed  to  select  one  question  from  a  tide  of  them. 

"Why  did  you  leave  me?" 

"I  wrote  you  a  full  explanation.  The  letter 
came  back  to  me  unread." 

Again  Joan  gave  the  laugh  and  the  gesture  of 
disdain. 

"That  does  n't  matter  .  .  .  your  loving  or  not 
loving.  You  made  use  of  me  for  your  own  ends, 
and  when  you  saw  fit,  you  left  me.  But  that's 
not  my  complaint.  I  don't  say  I  did  n't  deserve 
that.  I  was  easy  to  use.  But  it  was  all  based  on 
what  was  n't  true.  I  was  married,  my  man  was 
living,  and  I  had  dealings  with  you.  That  was  sin. 
That  was  horrible.  That  was  what  my  mother 

did.  She  was  a "  Joan  used  the  coarse  and 

ugly  word  her  father  had  taught  her,  and  Prosper 
laid  a  hand  over  her  mouth. 

"Joan!  No!  Never  say  it,  never  think  it.  You 
are  clean." 

Joan  twisted  herself  free,  stood  up,  and  walked 
away.  "I  am  that!"  she  said  grimly;  "and  it  was 
you  that  made  me.  You  took  lots  of  trouble  to 
make  me  see  things  in  a  way  where  nothing  a 
person  wants  is  either  right  or  wrong.  You  made 


214  The  Estray 

me  thirsty  with  your  talk  and  your  books  and 
your  music,  and  when  I  was  tormented  with 
thirst,  you  came  and  offered  me  a  drink  of  water. 
That  was  it.  I  don't  care  about  your  not  marry- 
ing me.  I  still  don't  see  that  that  has  much  to  do 
with  it  except,  perhaps,  that  a  man  would  be 
caring  to  give  any  woman  he  rightly  loves  what- 
ever help  or  cherishing  or  gifts  the  world  has  de- 
cided to  give  her.  But,  you  see,  Prosper,  we  did  n't 
start  fair.  You  knew  that  Pierre  was  alive." 
"But,  Joan,  you  say  yourself  that  marry  ing- 
She  stopped  him  with  so  fierce  a  gesture  that 
he  flinched.  "Yes.  Pierre  did  rightly  love  me. 
He  gave  me  his  best  as  he  knew  it.  Oh,  he  was 
ignorant,  a  savage,  I  guess,  like  I  was.  But  he  did 
rightly  love  me.  He  was  not  trying  to  break  my 
spirit  nor  to  tame  me,  nor  to  amuse  himself  with 
me,  nor  to  give  me  a  longing  for  beauty  and  easi- 
ness and  then  leave  me  to  fight  through  my  own 
rough  life  without  any  of  those  things.  Did  you 
really  think,  Prosper  Gael,  that  I  would  stay  in 
your  house  and  live  on  your  money  till  you  should 
be  caring  to  come  back  to  me  —  if  ever  you  would 
care?  Did  you  honestly  think  that  you  would  be 
coming  back  —  as  —  as  my  lover?  No.  What- 
ever it  was  that  took  you  away,  it  was  likely  to 
keep  you  from  me  for  always,-  was  n't  it?" 


Joan  and  Prosper  215 

"Yes,"  said  Prosper  in  a  muffled  voice,  "it 
was  likely  to.  But,  Joan,  Fate  was  on  your  side. 
Since  I  have  been  yours,  I  have  n't  belonged  to 
any  one  but  you.  You've  put  your  brand  on  me." 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  about  you,"  Joan  broke 
in.  "I  am  done  with  you.  Have  you  seen  this 
play?" 

;( Yes."  He  found  that  in  telling  her  so  he  could 
not  meet  her  eyes. 

"Well,  the  man  who  wrote  that  knew  what 
you  are,  and,  if  he  did  n't,  every  one  that  has 
seen  me  act  in  it,  knows  what  you  are."  She 
paused,  breathing  fast  and  trembling.  "Good- 
bye," she  said. 

He  went  vaguely  toward  the  door,  then  threw 
up  his  head  defiantly.  "No,"  he  said,  "it's  not 
going  to  be  good-bye.  I  've  found  you.  You  must 
let  me  tell  you  the  truth  about  myself.  Come, 
Joan,  you're  as  just  as  Heaven.  You  never  read 
my  explanations.  You've  never  heard  my  side  of 
it.  You  '11  let  me  come  to  see  you  and  you  '11  hear 
me  out.  Don't  do  me  an  injustice.  I'll  leave  the 
whole  thing  in  your  hands  after  that.  But  you 
must  give  me  that  one  chance." 

"Chance?  "  repeated  Joan.  "Chance  for  what?" 

"Oh," — Prosper  flung  up  his  lithe,  long 
hands  —  "oh,  for  nothing  but  a  cleansing  in 


216  The  Estray 

your  sight.  I  want  what  forgiveness  I  can  wring 
from  you.  I  want  what  understanding  I  can 
force  from  you.  That's  all." 

She  thought,  standing  there,  still  and  tall,  her 
arms  hanging,  her  eyes  wide  and  secret,  as  he 
had  remembered  them  in  her  thin,  changed,  so 
much  more  expressive  face. 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  "you  may  come.  I'll 
hear  you  out."  She  gave  him  the  address  and 
named  an  afternoon  hour.  "Good-night." 

It  was  a  graceful  and  dignified  dismissal. 
Prosper  bit  his  lip,  bowed  and  left  her. 

As  the  door  closed  upon  her,  he  knew  that  it 
had  closed  upon  the  only  real  and  vivid  presence 
in  his  Me.  War  had  burnt  away  his  glittering, 
clever  frivolity.  Betty  was  the  adventure,  Betty 
was  the  tinsel;  Joan  was  the  grave,  predestined 
woman  of  his  man.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  cleanness 
of  despair. 


CHAPTER  VH 
AFTERMATH 

JOAN  waited  for  Prosper  on  the  appointed 
afternoon.  There  was  a  fire  on  her  hearth  and 
a  March  snow-squall  tapped  against  the  window 
panes.  The  crackle  of  the  logs  inside  and  that 
eerie,  light  sound  outside  were  so  associated  with 
Prosper  that,  even  before  he  came,  Joan,  sitting 
on  one  side  of  the  hearth,  closed  her  eyes  and  felt 
that  he  must  be  opposite  to  her  in  his  red-lac- 
quered chair,  his  long  legs  stuck  out  in  front,  his 
amused  and  greedy  eyes  veiled  by  a  cloud  of 
cigarette  smoke. 

Since  she  had  seen  him  at  the  theater,  she  had 
been  suffering  from  sleeplessness.  At  night  she 
would  go  over  and  over  the  details  of  then*  inter- 
course, seeing  them,  feeling  them,  living  them  in 
the  light  of  later  knowledge,  till  the  torment  was 
hardly  to  be  borne.  Three  days  and  nights  of  this 
inner  activity  had  brought  back  that  sharp  line 
between  her  brows  and  the  bitter  tightening  of 
her  lips. 

This  afternoon  she  was  white  with  suspense. 
Her  dread  of  the  impending  interview  was  like  a 
physical  illness.  She  sat  in  a  high-backed  chair, 


218  The  Estray 

hands  along  the  arms,  head  resting  back,  eyes 
half -closed,  in  that  perfect  stillness  of  which  the 
animal  and  the  savage  are  alone  entirely  capable. 
There  were  many  gifts  that  Joan  had  brought 
from  the  seventeen  years  on  Lone  River.  This 
grave  immobility  was  one.  She  was  very  carefully 
dressed  in  a  gown  that  accentuated  her  height 
and  dignity.  And  she  wore  a  few  jewels.  She 
wanted,  pitifully  enough,  to  mark  every  differ- 
ence between  this  Joan  and  the  Joan  whom 
Prosper  had  drawn  on  his  sled  up  the  canon 
trail.  If  he  expected  to  force  her  back  into  the 
position  of  enchanted  leopardess,  to  see  her  "lie 
at  his  feet  and  eat  out  of  his  hand,"  as  Morena 
had  once  described  the  plight  of  Zona,  he  would 
see  at  a  glance  that  she  was  no  longer  so  easily 
mastered.  In  fact,  sitting  there,  she  looked  as 
proud  and  perilous  as  a  young  Medea,  black- 
haired  with  long  throat  and  cold,  malevolent 
lips.  It  was  only  in  the  eyes  —  those  gray,  un- 
happy, haunted  eyes  —  that  Joan  gave  away 
her  eternal  simplicity  of  heart.  They  were  un- 
alterably tender  and  lonely  and  hurt.  It  was  the 
look  in  them  that  had  prompted  Shorty's  de- 
scription, "She's  plumb  movin'  to  me  —  looks 
about  halfway  between  '  You  go  to  hell '  and  *  You 
take  me  in  your  arms  to  rest." 


Aftermath  219 

Prosper  was  announced,  and  Joan,  keeping  her 
stillness,  merely  turned  her  head  toward  him  as 
he  came  into  the  room. 

She  saw  his  rapid  observation  of  the  room,  of 
her,  even  before  she  noticed  the  very  apparent 
change  in  him.  For  he,  too,  was  haggard  and  ut- 
terly serious  as  she  did  not  remember  him.  He 
stood  before  her  fire  and  asked  her  jerkily  if  she 
would  let  him  smoke.  She  said  "Yes,"  and  those 
were  the  only  words  spoken  for  five  unbearable 
minutes  the  seconds  of  which  her  heart  beat  out 
like  a  shaky  hammer  in  some  worn  machine. 

Prosper  smoked  and  stood  there  looking,  now 
at  her,  now  at  the  fire.  At  last,  with  difficulty, 
he  smiled.  "You  are  not  going  to  make  it  easy 
for  me,  are  you,  Joan?" 

For  her  part  she  was  not  looking  at  him.  She 
kept  her  eyes  on  the  fire  and  this  averted  look 
distressed  and  irritated  his  nerves. 

"I  am  not  trying  to  make  it  hard,"  she  said; 
"I  want  you  to  say  what  you  came  to  say  and 

go." 

"Did  you  ever  love  me,  Joan?" 

He  had  said  it  to  force  a  look  from  her,  but  it 
had  the  effect  only  of  making  her  more  still,  if 
possible. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  slowly,  answering 


220  The  Estray 

with  her  old  directness.  "I  thought  you  needed 
me.  I  was  alone.  I  was  scared  of  the  emptiness 
when  I  went  out  and  looked  down  the  valley. 
I  thought  Pierre  had  gone  out  of  the  world  and 
there  was  no  living  thing  that  wanted  me.  I  came 
back  and  you  met  me  and  you  put  your  arms 
round  me  and  you  said"  -she  closed  her  eyes 
and  repeated  his  speech  as  though  she  had  just 
heard  it  —  "'Don't  leave  me,  Joan." 

Her  voice  was  more  than  ever  before  moving 
and  expressive.  Prosper  felt  that  half-forgotten 
thrill.  The  muscles  of  his  throat  contracted. 
"Joan,  I  did  want  you.  I  spoke  the  truth,"  he 
pleaded. 

She  went  on  with  no  impatience  but  very 
coldly.  "You  came  to  tell  me  your  side.  Will  you 
tell  me,  please?" 

For  the  first  time  she  looked  into  his  eyes  and 
he  drew  in  his  breath  at  the  misery  of  hers. 

"I  built  that  cabin,  Joan,"  he  said,  "for  an- 
other woman." 

"Your  wife?"  asked  Joan. 

"No." 

"For  the  one  I  said  must  have  been  like  a  tall 
child?  She  was  n't  your  wife?  She  was  dead?" 

Prosper  shook  his  head.  "No.  Did  you  think 
that?  She  was  a  woman  I  loved  at  that  time  very 


Aftermath 

dearly  and  she  was  already  married  to  another 
man." 

"You  built  that  house  for  her?  I  don't  under- 
stand." 

"She  had  promised  to  leave  her  husband  and 
to  come  away  with  me.  I  had  everything  ready, 
those  rooms,  those  clothes,  those  materials,  and 
when  I  went  out  to  get  her,  I  had  a  message  say- 
ing that  her  courage  had  failed  her,  that  she 
would  n't  come." 

"She  was  a  better  woman  than  me,"  said  Joan 
bitterly. 

Prosper  laughed.  "By  God,  she  was  not!  She 
sent  me  down  to  hell.  I  could  n't  go  back  to  the 
East  again.  I  had  laid  very  careful  and  elaborate 
plans.  I  was  trapped  out  there  in  that  horrible 
winter  country  ..." 

"It  was  not  horrible,"  said  Joan  violently;  "it 
was  the  most  wonderful,  beautiful  country  in  all 
the  world."  And  tears  ran  suddenly  down  her 
face. 

But  she  would  not  let  him  come  near  to  com- 
fort her.  "  Go  on,"  she  said  presently. 

"Before  you  came,  Joan,"  Prosper  went  on, 
"  it  was  horrible.  It  was  like  being  starved.  Every 
thing  in  the  house  reminded  me  of  —  her.  I  had 
planned  it  all  very  carefully  and  we  were  to  have 


222  The  Estray 

been  —  happy.  You  can  fancy  what  it  was  to  be 
there  alone." 

Joan  nodded.  She  was  just  and  she  was  hon- 
estly trying  to  put  herself  in  his  place.  "Yes," 
she  said;  "if  I  had  gone  back  and  Pierre  had 
been  dead,  his  homestead  would  have  been  like 
that  to  me." 

"  It  was  because  I  was  so  miserable  that  I  went 
out  to  hunt.  I'd  scour  the  country  all  day  and 
half  the  night  to  tire  myself  out,  that  I  could  get 
some  sleep.  I  was  pretty  far  from  home  that  moon- 
light night  when  I  heard  you  scream  for  help  ..." 

Joan's  face  grew  whiter.  "Don't  tell  about 
that,"  she  pleaded. 

He  paused,  choosing  another  opening.  "After 
I  had  bandaged  you  and  told  you  that  Pierre 
was  dead  —  and  I  honestly  thought  he  was  —  I 
did  n't  know  what  to  do  with  you.  You  could  n't 
be  left,  and  there  was  no  neighbor  nearer  than 
my  own  house;  besides,  I  had  shot  a  man,  and, 
perhaps,  —  I  don't  know,  maybe  I  was  influ- 
enced by  your  beauty,  by  my  own  crazy  loneli- 
ness. .  .  .  You  were  very  beautiful  and  very  deso- 
late. I  was  in  a  fury  over  the  brute's  treatment 
of  you  .  .  ." 

"Hush!"  said  Joan;  "you  are  not  to  talk 
about  Pierre." 


Aftermath  223 

Prosper  shrugged.  "I  decided  to  take  you 
home  with  me.  I  wanted  you  desperately,  just, 
I  believe,  to  take  care  of,  just  to  be  kind  to  - 
truly,  Joan,  I  was  lonely  to  the  point  of  mad- 
ness. Some  one  to  care  for,  some  one  to  talk  to, 
was  absolutely  necessary  to  save  my  reason.  So 
when  I  was  leading  you  out,  I  —  I  saw  Pierre's 
hand  move  — " 

Joan  stood  up.  After  a  moment  she  controlled 
herself  with  an  effort  and  sat  down  again.  "Go 
on.  I  can  stand  it,"  she  said. 

"And  I  thought  to  myself,  'The  devil  is  alive 
and  he  deserves  to  be  dead.  This  woman  can 
never  live  with  him  again.  God  would  n't  sanc- 
tion such  an  act  as  giving  her  back  to  his  hands.' 
And  I  was  half -mad  myself,  I'd  been  alone  so 
long  ...  I  stood  so  you  could  n't  see  him,  Joan, 
and  I  threw  an  elk-hide  over  him  and  led  you 
out." 

"I  followed  you;  I  didn't  look  at  Pierre;  I 
left  him  lying  there,"  gasped  Joan. 

Prosper  went  on  monotonously.  "When  I  came 
back  a  week  later,  I  thought  he  would  be  dead. 
It  was  dusk,  the  wind  was  blowing,  the  snow  was 
driving  in  a  scud.  I  came  down  to  the  cabin  and 
dropped  below  the  drift  by  that  northern  win- 
dow, and,  the  second  I  looked  in,  I  dropped  out 


224  The  Estray 

of  sight.  There  was  a  light  and  a  fire.  Your  hus- 
band was  lying  before  the  fire  on  a  cot.  There 
was  another  man  there,  your  Mr.  Holliwell;  they 
were  talking,  Holliwell  was  dressing  Pierre's 
wound.  I  went  away  like  a  ghost,  and  while  I 
was  going  back,  I  thought  it  all  out;  and  I  de- 
cided to  keep  you  for  myself.  I  suppose,"  said 
Prosper  dully,  "that  that  was  a  horrible  sin.  I 
did  n't  see  it  that  way  then.  I  'm  not  sure  I  see 
it  that  way  now.  Pierre  had  tied  you  up  and 
pressed  a  white-hot  iron  into  your  bare  shoulder. 
If  you  went  back  to  him,  if  he  took  you  back, 
how  was  I  to  know  that  he  might  not  repeat  his 
drunken  deviltry,  or  do  worse,  if  anything  could 
be  worse!  It  was  the  act  of  a  fiend.  It  put  him  out 
of  court  with  me.  Whatever  I  gave  you,  educa- 
tion and  beauty,  and  ease,  must  be  better  and 
happier  for  you  than  life  with  such  a  brute  as 
Pierre—" 

"Stop!"  said  Joan  between  her  teeth;  "you 
know  nothing  of  Pierre  and  me;  you  only  know 
that  one  dreadful  night.  You  don't  know  —  the 
rest." 

"I  don't  want  to  know  the  rest,"  he  said 
sharply;  "that  is  enough  to  justify  my  action. 
I  thought  so  then  and  I  think  so  now.  You  won't 
be  able  to  make  me  change  that  opinion." 


Aftermath  225 

"I  shall  not  try,"  said  Joan. 

He  accepted  this  and  went  on.  "When  I  found 
you  in  your  bed  waiting  for  news  of  Pierre,  1 
thought  you  the  most  beautiful,  pitiful  thing 
I  had  ever  seen.  I  loved  you  then,  Joan,  then. 
Tell  me,  did  I  ever  in  those  days  hurt  you  or 
give  you  a  moment's  anxiety  or  fear?  " 

"No,"  Joan  admitted,  "you  did  not.  In  those 
days  you  were  wonderful,  kind  and  patient  with 
me.  I  thought  you  were  more  like  God  than  a 
human  then." 

Prosper  laughed  with  bitterness.  "You  thought 
very  wrong,  but,  according  to  my  own  lights,  I 
was  very  careful  of  you.  I  meant  to  give  you  all  I 
could  and  I  meant  to  win  you  with  patience  and 
forbearance.  I  had  respect  for  you  and  for  your 
grief  and  for  the  horrible  thing  you  had  suffered. 
Joan,  by  now  you  know  better  what  the  world  is. 
Can  you  reproach  me  so  very  bitterly  for  our  — 
happiness,  even  if  it  was  short?" 

"You  lied  to  me,"  said  Joan.  "It  was  n't  just. 
We  did  n't  start  even.  And  —  and  you  knew 
what  you  wanted  of  me.  I  never  guessed." 

"You  did  n't?  You  never  guessed?" 

"No.  Sometimes,  toward  the  last,  I  was  afraid. 
I  felt  that  I  ought  to  go  away.  That  day  I  ran  off 
—  you  remember  —  I  was  afraid  of  you.  I  felt 


226  The  Estray 

you  were  bad  and  that  I  was  bad  too.  Then  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I'd  been  dreadfully  ungrate- 
ful and  unkind.  That  was  what  began  to  make 
me  give  way  to  my  feelings.  I  was  sorrowful  be- 
cause I  had  hurt  you  and  you  so  kind !  The  day  I 
came  in  with  that  suit  and  spoke  of  —  her  as  a 
'tall  child'  and  you  cried,  why,  I  felt  so  sorrow- 
ful that  I  'd  made  you  suffer.  I  wanted  to  comfort 
you,  to  put  my  hands  on  you  in  comfort,  like  a 
mother,  1  felt.  And  you  went  out  like  you  were 
angry  and  stayed  away  all  night  as  though  you 
could  n't  bear  to  be  seeing  me  again  in  your 
house  that  you  had  built  for  her.  So  I  wrote  you 
my  letter  and  went  away.  And  then  —  it  was  all 
so  awful  cold  and  empty.  I  did  n't  know  Pierre 
was  out  there.  I  came  back  ..." 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  long  time  and  in 
the  silence  the  idyll  was  re-lived.  Spring  came 
again  with  its  crest  of  green  along  the  canon  and 
the  lake  lay  like  a  turquoise  drawing  the  glitter- 
ing peak  down  into  its  heart. 

"My  book  —  its  success,"  Prosper  began  at 
last,  "made  me  restless.  You'll  understand  that 
now  that  you  are  an  artist  yourself.  And  one 
day  there  came  a  letter  from  that  woman  I  had 
loved." 

"It  was  a  little  square  gray  envelope,"  said 


Aftermath 

Joan  breathlessly.  "I  can  see  it  now.  You  never 
rightly  looked  at  me  again." 

"Ah!"  said  Prosper.  He  turned  and  hid  his 
face. 

"Tell  me  the  rest,"  said  Joan. 

He  went  on  without  turning  back  to  her,  his 
head  bent.  "The  woman  wrote  that  her  husband 
was  dying,  that  I  must  come  back  to  her  at 
once." 

The  snow  tapped  and  the  fire  crackled. 

"And  when  you  —  went  back?" 

"Her  husband  did  not  die,"  said  Prosper 
blankly;  "he  is  still  alive." 

"And  you  still  love  her  very  much?" 

"That's  the  worst  of  it,  Joan,"  groaned 
Prosper.  His  groan  changed  into  a  desperate 
laugh.  "I  love  you.  Now  truly  I  do  love  you.  If 
I  could  marry  you  —  if  I  could  have  you  for  my 
wife  — "  He  waited,  breathing  fast,  then  came 
and  stood  close  before  her.  "I  have  never  wanted 
a  woman  to  be  my  wife  till  now.  I  want  you. 
I  want  you  to  be  the  mother  of  my  children." 

Then  Joan  did  look  at  him  with  all  her  eyes. 

"I  am  Pierre's  wife,"  she  said.  The  liquid 
beauty  had  left  her  voice.  It  was  hoarse  and  dry. 
"I  am  Pierre's  wife  and  I  have  already  been  the 
mother  of  your  child." 


228  The  Estray 

There  was  a  long,  rigid  silence.  "Joan  — 
when?  —  where?"  Prosper's  throat  clicked. 

"I  knew  it  before  you  left.  I  could  n't  tell  you 
because  you  were  so  changed.  I  worked  all  winter. 
It  —  it  was  born  on  an  awful  cold  March  night. 
I  think  the  woman  let  it  —  made  it  —  die.  She 
wanted  me  to  work  for  her  during  the  summer 
and  she  thought  I  would  be  glad  if  the  child 
did  n't  live.  She  used  to  say  I  was  *  in  trouble ' 
and  she'd  be  glad  if  she  could  'help  me  out.'  .  .  . 
It  was  what  I  was  planning  to  live  for  .  .  .  that 
child." 

During  the  heavy  stillness  following  Joan's 
dreadful,  brief  account  of  birth  and  death,  Pros- 
per went  through  a  strange  experience.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  in  his  soul  something  was  born  and 
died.  Always  afterwards  there  was  a  ghost  in 
him  —  the  father  that  might  have  been. 

"I  can't  talk  any  more,"  said  Joan  faintly. 
"Won't  you  please  go?" 


CHAPTER  VIII 
AGAINST  THE  BARS 

JASPER  MORENA  had  stood  for  an  hour  in  a 
drafty  passage  of  that  dirty  labyrinth  known 
vaguely  to  the  public  as  "behind  the  scenes," 
listening  to  the  wearisome  complaints  of  a  long- 
nosed  young  actor.  It  was  the  sixth  of  such  con- 
versations that  he  had  held  that  day:  to  begin 
with,  there  had  been  a  difficulty  between  a  di- 
rector and  the  leading  man.  Morena's  tact  was 
still  complete;  he  was  very  gentle  to  the  long- 
nosed  youth;  but  the  latter,  had  he  been  capable 
of  seeing  anything  but  himself,  must  have 
noticed  that  his  listener's  face  was  pale  and 
faintly  lined. 

"Yes,  my  boy,  of  course,  that's  reasonable 
enough.  I'll  do  what  I  can." 

"I  don't  make  extravagant  demands,  you  see," 
the  young  man  spread  down  and  out  his  hands, 
quivering  with  exaggerated  feeling;  "I  ask  only 
for  decent  treatment,  what  my  own  self-respect 
ab-so-lute-ly  demands." 

Morena  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  walked 
beside  him. 


230  The  Estray 

"Did  you  ever  stop  to  think,"  he  said  with  his 
charming  smile,  "that  the  other  fellow  is  think- 
ing and  saying  just  the  same  thing?  Now,  this 
chap  that  has,  as  you  put  it,  got  your  goat, 
why,  he  came  to  me  himself  this  morning,  and, 
word  for  word,  he  said  of  you  just  precisely 
what  you  have  just  said  of  him  to  me.  Odd, 
is  n't  it?" 

Again  the  young  actor  stopped  for  one  of  his 
gestures,  hands  up  this  time.  "But,  my  God,  sir! 
Is  there  such  a  thing  as  honesty?  He  could  n't 
accuse  me  of  — " 

"Well,  he  thought  he  could.  However,  I  do  get 
your  point  of  view  and  I  think  we  can  fix  it  up 
for  you  so  that  you  '11  get  off  with  your  self-respect 
entirely  intact.  I'll  talk  to  George  to-morrow. 
You're  worth  the  bother.  Good-afternoon." 

The  young  man  bowed,  his  air  of  tragic  injury 
softened  to  one  of  tragic  self -appreciation.  Worth 
the  bother,  indeed ! 

Morena  left  him  at  the  top  of  the  dingy  stairs 
down  which  the  manager  fled  to  an  alley  at  one 
side  of  the  theater,  where  his  car  was  waiting  for 
him.  He  stood  for  a  while  with  his  foot  on  the 
step  and  his  hand  on  the  door,  looking  rather 
blankly  at  the  gray,  cold  wall  and  the  scurrying 
whirlwinds  of  dust  and  paper. 


Against  the  Bars  231 

"Drop  yourself  at  the  garage,  Ned,"  he  said, 
"and  I '11  take  the  car." 

He  climbed  in  beside  the  wheel.  He  was  very 
tired,  but  he  had  remembered  that  Jane  West, 
when  he  had  last  seen  her,  had  worn  a  look  of 
profound  discouragement.  She  never  complained, 
but  when  he  saw  that  particular  expression  he 
was  frightened  and  the  responsibility  for  her 
came  heavily  upon  him.  This  wild  thing  he  had 
brought  to  New  York  must  not  be  allowed  to 
beat  its  head  dumbly  against  the  bars. 

When  he  had  got  rid  of  his  driver,  he  turned 
the  car  northward,  and  a  few  minutes  later 
Mathilde,  the  French  maid  chosen  by  Betty, 
opened  Jane's  door  to  him. 

While  he  took  off  his  coat  he  looked  along  the 
hall  and  saw  its  owner  sitting,  her  chin  propped 
on  a  latticework  of  fingers.  She  was  gazing  out 
of  the  window.  It  was  a  beautiful,  desperate  sil- 
houette; something  fateful  in  the  long,  still  pose 
and  the  fixed  look.  She  was  still  dressed  in  street 
clothes  as  when  she  had  left  the  theater,  a  blouse 
and  skirt  of  dark  gray,  very  plain.  Her  figure, 
now  that  it  was  trained  to  slight  corseting,  was 
less  vigorous  and  more  fine-drawn.  She  was  very 
thin,  but  she  had  lost  her  worn  and  haggard  look; 
the  premature  hard  lines  had  almost  disappeared; 


232  The  Estray 

a  softer  climate,  proper  care,  rest,  food,  luxury 
had  given  back  her  young,  clear  skin  and  the 
brightness  of  eyes  and  lips.  Her  hair,  arranged 
very  simply  to  frame  her  face  in  a  broken  setting 
of  black,  was  glossy,  and  here  and  there,  deeply 
waved.  It  was  the  arrangement  chosen  for  her 
by  Betty  and  copied  from  a  Du  Maurier  drawing 
of  the  Duchess  of  Towers.  It  was  hard  to  believe 
that  this  graceful  woman  was  the  virago  Jane, 
harder  for  any  one  that  had  seen  a  heavy,  hand- 
some girl  stride  into  Mrs.  Upper's  hotel  and  ask 
for  work,  to  believe  that  she  was  here. 

Morena  clapped  his  hands  in  the  Eastern  fash- 
ion of  summons,  and  Jane  looked  toward  him. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I'm  glad  you  came." 

He  strolled  in  and  stood  beside  her  shaking 
his  head. 

"I  did  n't  like  the  look  of  you  this  afternoon, 
my  dear." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Jane,  "I  don't  like  the  look 
of  you  either."  She  smiled  her  slow,  unself- 
conscious  smile.  "You  sit  down  and  I'll  make 
tea  for  you." 

He  knew  that  thought  for  some  one  else  was 
the  best  tonic  for  her  mood,  so  he  dropped,  with 
his  usual  limp  grace,  into  the  nearest  chair,  put 
back  his  head  and  half-closed  his  eyes. 


Against  the  Bars  233 

"I'm  used  up,"  he  said;  "I  have  n't  a  word  - 
not  one  to  throw  at  a  dog." 

"Please  don't  throw  one  at  me,  then.  I  surely 
would  n't  take  it  as  a  compliment."  She  made 
the  tea  gravely,  as  absorbed  in  the  work  as  a 
little  girl  who  makes  tea  for  her  dolls.  She 
brought  him  his  cup  and  went  back  to  her  place 
and  again  her  face  settled  into  that  look.  She  had 
evidently  forgotten  him  and  her  eyes  held  a 
vision  as  of  distances. 

He  put  a  hand  up  to  break  her  fixed  gaze. 
"What  is  it,  Jane?  What  do  you  see?" 

To  his  astonishment  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands.  "It's  awful  to  live  like  this,"  she  moaned; 
and  it  frightened  him  to  see  her  move  her  head 
from  side  to  side  like  an  imprisoned  beast,  shift- 
ing before  bars. 

He  looked  about  the  pretty  room  and  repeated, 
"Like  this?"  half -reproachfully. 

"I  hate  it!"  She  spoke  through  her  teeth.  "I 
hate  it !  And,  oh,  the  sounds,  the  noises,  grinding 
into  your  ears." 

Here  the  hands  came  to  her  ears  and  framed  a 
white,  desperate  face  in  which  the  lids  had  fallen 
over  sick  eyes. 

Jasper  sat  listening  to  the  hum  and  roar  and 
clatter  of  the  street.  To  him  it  was  a  pleasant 


234  The  Estray 

sound,  and  here  it  was  subdued  and  remote 
enough.  Her  face  was  like  that  of  some  one  mad- 
dened by  noise. 

'You  don't  smell  anything  fresh  "  —  her  chest 
lifted  —  "y°u  don't  get  air.  I  can't  breathe. 
Everything  presses  in."  She  opened  her  eyes, 
bright  and  desperate.  "What  am  I  doing  here, 
Mr.  Morena?" 

He  had  put  down  his  cup  quietly,  for  he  was 
really  half -afraid  of  her.  "Why  did  you  come, 
Jane?" 

"Because  I  was  afraid  of  some  one.  I  was  run- 
ning away,  Mr.  Morena.  There's  some  one  that 
must  n't  ever  find  me  now,  and  to  run  away  from 
him  —  that  was  the  business  of  my  life.  And  it 
kept  my  heart  full  of  him  and  the  dread  of  his 
coming.  You  see,  that  was  my  happiness.  I  hoped 
he  was  taking  after  me  so's  I  could  run  away." 
She  laughed  apologetically.  "Does  that  sound 
crazy  to  you?" 

"No.  I  think  I  understand.  And  here?" 

"He'll  never  come  here.  He'll  never  find  me. 
It's  been  four  years.  And  I'm  so  changed. 
This "  —  she  gave  herself  a  downward  look  — 
"this  is  n't  the  'gel'  he  wants.  .  .  .  Probably  by 
now  he's  given  me  up.  Maybe  he's  found  an- 
other. Everything  that's  bad  and  hateful  can 


Against  the  Bars  «35 

find  me  out  here.  Bad  things  can  find  you  out 
and  try  to  clutch  after  you  anywheres.  But  when 
something  wild  and  clean  comes  hunting  for  you, 
something  out  of  the  big  lonely  places  —  why,  it 
would  be  scared  to  follow  into  this  city." 

"You're  lonely,  Jane.  I've  told  you  a  hundred 
times  that  you  ought  to  make  friends  for  your- 
self." 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  for  that.  I  don't  want  friends, 
not  many  friends.  These  acting  people,  they're 
not  real  folks.  I  don't  savvy  their  ways  and  they 
don't  savvy  mine.  They  always  end  by  disliking 
me  because  I'm  queer  and  different  from  them. 
You  have  been  my  friend,  and  your  wife  —  that 
is,  she  used  to  be."  Suddenly  Jane  became  more 
her  usual  self  and  spoke  with  childlike  wistful- 
ness.  "She  doesn't  come  to  see  me  any  more, 
Mr.  Morena.  And  I  could  love  her.  She's  so  like 
a  little  girl  with  those  round  eyes  — "  Jane  held 
up  two  circles  made  by  forefingers  and  thumbs 
to  represent  Betty's  round  eyes.  "Oh,  dear!"  she 
said;  "isn't  she  awfully  winning?  Seems  as  if 
you  must  be  taking  care  of  her.  She's  so  small 
and  fine." 

Jasper  laughed  with  some  bitterness. 

"She  does  n't  like  me  now,"  sighed  Jane,  but 
the  feelings  Betty  had  hurt  were  connected  with 


236  The  Estray 

a  later  development  so  that  they  turned  her 
mood  and  brought  her  to  a  more  normal  dejec- 
tion. She  was  no  longer  a  caged  beast,  she  had 
temporarily  forgotten  her  bars. 

"I  think  you're  wrong,"  said  Jasper  doubt- 
fully. "Betty  does  like  you.  She's  merely  busy 
and  preoccupied.  I've  been  neglected  myself." 

Jane  gave  him  a  far  too  expressive  look.  It  was 
as  though  she  had  said,  "You  don't  fancy  that 
she  cares  for  you?  " 

Jasper  flushed  and  blinked  his  long,  Oriental 
eyes. 

"It's  a  pity  you  haven't  a  lover,  Jane,"  he 
said. 

She  had  walked  over  to  the  window,  and  his 
speech,  purposely  a  trifle  cruel  and  insulting,  did 
not  make  her  turn. 

"You're  angry,"  she  said.  "You'd  better  go 
home.  I'm  not  in  good  humor  myself." 

At  which  he  laughed  his  murmuring,  musical 
laugh  and  prepared  to  leave  her. 

"I  have  a  great  deal  of  courage,"  he  said,  get- 
ting into  his  coat,  "to  bring  a  wild-cat  here, 
chain  her  up,  and  tease  her  —  eh?" 

:'You  think  you  have  me  chained?"  Her  tone 
was  enraged  and  scornful.  "I  can  snap  your 
flimsy  little  tether  and  go." 


Against  the  Bars  237 

She  wheeled  upon  him.  She  looked  tall  and 
fierce  and  free. 

"No,  no,"  he  cried  with  deprecating  voice  and 
gesture.  "You  are  making  Mr.  Luck's  fortune 
and  mine,  not  to  mention  your  own.  You  must  n't 
break  your  chains.  Get  used  to  them.  We  all  have 
to,  you  know.  It's  much  the  best  method." 

"I  shall  never  get  used  to  this  life,  never.  It 
just  —  somehow  —  is  n't  mine." 

"Perhaps  when  you  meet  Mr.  Luck,  he'll  be 
able  to  reconcile  you." 

Her  expressive  face  darkened.  "When  shall  I 
meet  Mr.  Luck?" 

"Soon,  I  hope.  Mr.  Melton  knows  just  when 
to  announce  the  authorship." 

"I  hate  Mr.  Luck  more  than  any  one  in  the 
world,"  she  said  in  a  low,  quiet  voice. 

Jasper  stared.  "Hate  him!  Why,  in  the  name 
of  savagery,  should  you  hate  him?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  explain.  But  you'd  better  keep 
us  apart.  How  came  he  to  write  'The  Leopard- 
ess'?" 

"I  shall  leave  him  to  tell  you  that.  Good- 
night." 


CHAPTER  IX 
GRAY  ENVELOPES 

IT  was  with  more  than  the  usual  sinking  of  heart 
that  Jasper  let  himself  that  evening  into  the 
beautiful  house  which  Betty  and  he  called  their 
home.  Joan's  too  expressive  look  had  stung  the 
old  soreness  of  his  disillusionment.  He  knew  that 
the  house  was  empty  of  welcome.  He  took  off  his 
hat  and  coat  dejectedly.  There  were  footsteps  of 
his  man  who  came  from  the  far  end  of  the  hall. 

While  he  stood  waiting,  Jasper  noticed  the 
absence  of  a  familiar  fragrance.  For  the  first  time 
in  years  Betty  had  forgotten  to  order  flowers. 
The  red  roses  which  Jasper  always  caressed  with 
a  long,  appreciative  finger  as  he  went  by  the 
table  in  the  hall,  were  missing.  Their  absence 
gave  him  a  faint  sensation  of  alarm. 

"  Mr.  Kane,  Mrs.  Morena's  brother,  has  called 
to  see  you,  sir.  He  is  waiting." 

Jasper's  eyebrows  rose.  "To  see  me?  Is  he  with 
Mrs.  Morena  now?  " 

"No,  sir.  Mrs.  Morena  went  out  this  morning 
and  has  not  yet  returned.  Mr.  Kane  has  been 
here  since  five  o'clock,  sir." 


Gray  Envelopes  239 

"Very  well." 

It  was  a  mechanical  speech  of  dismissal.  The 
footman  went  off.  Jasper  stood  tapping  his  chin 
with  his  finger.  Woodward  Kane  come  to  see  him 
during  Betty's  absence!  Woodward  had  not 
spoken  more  than  three  or  four  icy  words  of 
necessity  to  him  since  the  marriage.  After  a  stiff, 
ungracious  fashion  this  brother  had  befriended 
Betty,  but  to  his  Jewish  brother-in-law  he  had 
shown  only  a  slightly  disguised  distaste.  The  Jew 
was  well  used  to  such  a  manner.  He  treated  it 
with  light  bitterness,  but  he  did  not  love  to  re- 
ceive the  users  of  it  in  his  own  house.  It  was  with 
heightened  color  and  bent  brows  that  he  pushed 
apart  the  long,  crimson  hangings  and  came  into 
the  immense  drawing-room. 

It  was  softly  lighted  and  pleasantly  warmed. 
A  fire  burned.  The  tall,  fair  visitor  rose  from  a 
seat  near  the  blaze  and  turned  all  in  one  rigid 
piece  toward  his  advancing  host.  Jasper  was  per- 
fectly conscious  that  his  own  gesture  and  speech 
of  greeting  were  too  eager,  too  ingratiating,  that 
they  had  a  touch  of  servility.  He  hated  them 
himself,  but  they  were  inherited  with  his  blood, 
as  instinctive  as  the  wagging  of  a  dog's  tail.  They 
were  met  by  a  precise  bow,  no  smile,  no  taking 
of  his  outstretched  hand. 


240  The  Estray 

Jasper  drew  himself  up  at  once,  put  the 
slighted  hand  on  the  back  of  a  tall,  crimson- 
damask  chair,  and  looked  his  stateliest  and  most 
handsome  self. 

"Betty  has  n't  come  in  yet,"  he  said.  "  You  Ve 
been  waiting  for  her?" 

Woodward  Kane  pulled  at  his  short,  yellow 
mustache  and  stared  at  Jasper  with  his  large, 
blank,  blue  eyes.  "As  a  matter  of  fact  I  did  n't 
call  to  see  my  sister,  but  to  see  you.  I  have  just 
come  from  Elizabeth.  She  is  at  my  house.  She 
came  to  me  this  morning." 

Jasper's  fingers  tightened  on  the  chair.  "She  is 
sick?" 

"No."  There  was  a  pause  during  which  the 
blank,  blue  eyes  staring  at  him  slowly  gathered 
a  look  of  cold  pleasure.  Jasper  was  aware  that 
this  man  who  hated  him  was  enjoying  his  present 
mission. 

"Shall  we  sit  down?  I  shall  have  to  take  a  good 
deal  of  your  time,  I  am  afraid.  There  is  rather  a 
good  deal  to  be  gone  over." 

Jasper  sat  down  in  the  chair  the  back  of  which 
he  had  been  holding.  "Will  you  smoke?"  he 
asked,  and  smiled  his  charming  smile. 

There  was  now  not  a  trace  of  embarrassment, 
anger,  or  anxiety  about  him.  His  eyes  were  quiet, 


Gray  Envelopes  241 

his  voice  flexible.  Woodward  declined  to  smoke, 
crossed  his  beautifully  clothed  legs  and  drew  a 
small  gray  envelope  from  his  pocket.  Jasper's 
eyes  fastened  upon  it  at  once.  It  was  Betty's 
paper  and  her  angular,  boyish  writing  marched 
across  it.  Evidently  the  note  was  addressed  to 
him.  He  waited  while  Woodward  turned  it  about 
in  his  long,  stiff,  white  fingers. 

"About  two  months  ago  Betty  came  to  me 
one  evening  in  great  distress  of  mind.  She  asked 
for  my  advice  and  to  the  best  of  my  ability  I  gave 
it  to  her.  I  wish  that  she  had  asked  for  it  ten 
years  ago.  She  might  have  saved  herself  a  great 
deal.  This  tune  she  has  not  only  asked  for  it,  but 
she  has  been  following  it,  and,  in  following  it, 
she  has  now  left  your  house  and  come  to  mine. 
This,  of  course,  will  not  surprise  you." 

"It  does,  however,  surprise  me  greatly."  It 
was  still  the  gentle  murmur,  but  Jasper's  ciga- 
rette smoke  veiled  his  face. 

"I  cannot  understand  that.  However,  it's  not 
my  business.  Betty  has  asked  me  to  interview 
you  to-day  so  that  she  may  be  spared  the  humili- 
ation. After  this,  you  must  address  your  com- 
munications to  her  lawyers.  In  a  short  time 
Rogers  and  Daring  will  serve  you  with  notice  of 
divorce." 


242  The  Estray 

Jasper  sat  perfectly  still,  leaning  slightly  for- 
ward, his  cigarette  between  his  fingers. 

"So-o!"  he  said  after  a  long  silence.  Then  he 
held  out  his  hand.  "I  may  have  Betty's  letter?" 

Woodward  Kane  withheld  it  and  again  that 
look  of  pleasure  was  visible  in  his  eyes.  "Just  a 
moment,  please.  I  should  like  to  have  my  own 
say  out  first.  I  shall  have  to  be  brutal,  I  am 
afraid.  In  these  matters  there  is  nothing  for  it 
but  frankness.  Your  infidelity  has  been  common 
talk  for  some  time.  The  story  of  it  first  came  to 
Betty's  ears  on  the  evening  when  she  came  to  me 
two  months  ago.  Since  then  there  has  been  but 
one  possible  course." 

Jasper  kept  another  silence,  more  difficult, 
however,  than  his  last.  His  pallor  was  noticeable. 
"You  say  my  —  infidelity  is  common  talk. 
There  has  been  a  name  used?" 

"Your  protegee  from  Wyoming  —  Jane  West." 

Jasper  was  on  his  feet,  and  Woodward  too  rose, 
jerkily  holding  up  a  hand.  "No  excitement, 
please,"  he  begged.  "Let  us  conduct  this  unfor- 
tunate interview  like  gentlemen,  if  possible." 

Jasper  laughed.  "As  you  say  —  if  possible. 
Why,  man,  it  was  Betty  who  helped  me  bring 
Miss  West  to  New  York,  it  was  Betty  who  helped 
me  to  install  her  here,  it  was  Betty  who  chose  the 


Gray  Envelopes  243 

furnishings  for  her  apartment,  who  helped  her 
buy  her  clothes,  who  engaged  her  maid,  who 
gave  her  most  of  her  training.  This  is  the  most 
preposterous,  the  most  filthy  perversion  of  the 
truth.  Betty  must  know  it  better  than  any  one 
else.  Come,  now,  Woodward,  there's  something 
more  in  it  than  this?"  Jasper  had  himself  in 
hand,  but  it  was  easy  now  to  see  the  effort  it 
cost  him.  The  veins  of  his  forehead  were  swollen. 

"I  shall  not  discuss  the  matter  with  you. 
Betty  has  excellent  evidence,  unimpeachable 
witnesses.  There  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind,  nor  in 
the  minds  of  her  lawyers,  that  she  will  win  her 
suit  and  get  her  divorce,  her  release.  Of  course, 
you  will  not  contest  — " 

Jasper  stopped  in  his  pacing  which  had  begun 
to  take  the  curious,  circling,  weaving  form  char- 
acteristic of  him,  and,  standing  now  with  his 
head  thrown  back,  he  spoke  sonorously. 

"Do  you  imagine  for  one  instant,  Kane,  — 
does  Betty  imagine  for  one  instant,  —  that  I 
shall  not  contest?" 

This  changed  the  look  of  cold  pleasure  in 
Woodward's  eyes,  which  grew  blank  again.  "Do 
you  mean  me  to  understand  —  Naturally,  I 
took  it  for  granted  that  you  would  act  as  most 
gentlemen  act  under  the  circumstances." 


244  The  Estray 

"Then  you  have  taken  too  much  for  granted, 
you  and  Betty.  Ten  years  ago  your  sister  gave 
herself  to  me.  She  is  mine.  I  will  not  for  a  whim, 
for  a  passion,  for  a  temporary  alienation,  let  her 
go.  Neither  will  I  have  my  good  name  and  the 
name  of  a  good  woman  besmirched  for  the  sake 
of  this  impertinent  desire  for  a  release.  I  love  my 
wife" — his  voice  was  especially  Hebraic  and 
especially  abhorrent  to  the  other-  "and  as  a 
husband  I  mean  to  keep  her  from  the  ruin  this 
divorce  would  mean  to  her  — " 

"Far  from  being  her  ruin,  Morena,  it  would 
be  the  saving  of  her.  Her  ruin  was  as  nearly  as 
possible  brought  about  ten  years  ago,  when 
against  the  advice,  against  the  wishes  of  every 
one  who  loved  her,  she  made  her  insane  mar- 
riage with  an  underbred,  commercial,  and  licen- 
tious Jew.  She  was  seventeen  and  you  seized  your 
opportunity." 

Jasper  had  stepped  close.  He  was  a  head  taller 
and  several  inches  broader  of  shoulder  than  his 
brother-in-law.  "As  long  as  you  are  in  my  house, 
don't  insult  me.  I  am,  as  you  say,  a  Jew,  and  I  am, 
as  you  say,  of  a  commercial  family.  But  I  am 
not,  I  have  never  been  licentious.  Is  it  necessary 
to  use  such  language?  You  suggested  that  this 
interview  be  conducted  by  us  like  gentlemen." 


Gray  Envelopes  245 

"The  man  who  refuses  to  give  her  liberty  to 
a  wife  that  loathes  him,  scarcely  comes  under 
the  definition." 

"My  ideas  on  the  matter  are  different.  We 
need  not  discuss  them.  If  you  will  let  me  read 
my  wife's  letter,  I  think  that  we  can  come  to  an 
end  of  this." 

Woodward  unwillingly  surrendered  the  small, 
gray  envelope  to  a  quivering,  outstretched  hand. 
Jasper  turned  away  and  stood  near  the  lamp. 
But  his  excitement  prevented  him  from  reading. 
The  angular  writing  jumped  before  his  eyes.  At 
last,  the  words  straightened  themselves. 

I  am  glad  that  you  have  given  me  this  opportunity 
to  escape  from  a  life  that  for  a  long  time  has  been 
dreadful  to  me.  Ten  years  ago  I  made  a  disaster  of 
my  life  and  yours.  Forgive  me  if  you  can  and  let  me 
escape.  I  will  not  see  you  again.  Whatever  you  may 
have  to  say,  please  say  it  to  Woodward.  From  now 
on  he  is  my  protector.  In  other  matters  there  are  my 
lawyers.  It  is  absolutely  not  to  be  thought  of  that  I 
should  speak  to  you.  I  hope  never  to  see  you  alone. 
I  want  you  to  hate  me  and  this  note  ought  to  make  it 
easy  for  you. 

BETTY 

Jasper  stared  at  the  name.  He  was  utterly  be- 
wildered, utterly  staggered,  by  the  amazing  dis- 
simulation practiced  by  this  small,  soft-lipped, 
round-eyed  girl  who  had  lived  with  him  for  so 


246  The  Estray 

long,  sufficiently  pliable,  sufficiently  agreeable. 
What  was  back  of  it  all?  Another  man,  of  course. 
In  imagination  he  was  examining  the  faces  of  his 
acquaintances,  narrowing  his  lids  as  though  the 
real  men  passed  in  review  before  him. 

"Perhaps  you  understand  the  situation  better 
now?"  asked  Woodward  cruelly. 

Jasper's  intense  pain  and  humiliation  gave  him 
a  sort  of  calm.  He  seemed  entirely  cool  when  he 
moved  back  toward  his  brother-in-law;  his  eyes 
were  clear,  the  heat  had  gone  from  his  temples. 
He  was  even  smiling  a  little,  though  there  was  a 
white,  even  frame  to  his  lips. 

"I  shall  not  write  to  Betty  nor  attempt  to  see 
her,"  he  said  quietly.  "But  I  shall  ask  you  to 
take  a  message  to  her." 

Woodward  assented. 

"Tell  her  she  shall  have  her  release,  but  to  get 
it  she  will  have  to  walk  through  the  mire  and 
there  will  be  no  one  waiting  for  her  on  the  other 
side.  Can  you  remember  that?  Not  even  you  will 
be  there."  He  was  entirely  self-assured  so  that 
Woodward  felt  a  chill  of  dismay. 

"I  shall  contest  the  suit,"  went  on  Jasper, 
"and  I  believe  that  I  shall  win  it.  You  may  tell 
Betty  so  if  you  like  or  she  can  wait  to  hear  it 
from  my  lawyer."  He  put  the  envelope  into  his 


Gray  Envelopes  247 

pocket,  crossed  the  room,  and  held  back  one  of 
the  crimson  curtains  of  the  door. 

"If  you  have  nothing  more  to  say,"  he  smiled, 
"neither  have  I.  Good-bye." 

He  bowed  slightly,  and  Woodward  found  him- 
self passing  before  him  in  silence  and  some  con- 
fusion. He  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  hall  and, 
having  stammered  his  way  to  a  cold  "Good- 
afternoon,"  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went  out. 

Jasper  returned  to  the  empty  drawing-room 
and  began  his  weaving  march. 

Before  he  could  begin  his  spinning  which  he 
hoped  would  entangle  Betty  and  leave  her  pow- 
erless for  him  to  hold  or  to  release  at  will,  he 
must  go  to  Jane  West  and  tell  her  what  trick  life 
with  his  help  had  played  upon  her.  The  prospect 
wras  bitterly  distasteful.  Jasper  accused  himself 
of  selfishness.  Because  she  cared  nothing  for  the 
world,  was  a  creature  apart,  he  had  let  the  world 
think  what  it  would.  He  knew  that  an  askance 
look  would  not  hurt  her;  for  himself,  secure  in 
innocence,  he  did  not  care;  for  Betty,  he  had 
thought  her  cruelly  certain  of  him. 

He  went  to  Jane  the  day  after  his  interview 
with  Woodward  Kane.  It  was  Sunday  afternoon. 
She  was  out,  but  came  in  very  soon,  and  he  stood 
up  to  meet  her  with  an  air  of  confusion  and  guilt. 


248  The  Estray 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  she  asked, 
pulling  her  gloves  from  her  long  hands. 

Her  quickly  observant  eyes  swept  him.  She 
walked  to  him  and  stood  near.  The  frosty  air 
was  still  about  her  and  her  face  was  lightly  stung 
to  color  with  exercise.  Her  wild  eyes  were  start- 
ling under  the  brim  of  her  smart,  tailored  hat. 

Jasper  put  a  hand  on  either  of  her  shoulders 
and  bent  his  head  before  her.  "My  poor  child  — 
if  I'd  only  left  you  in  your  kitchen!" 

Joan  tightened  her  lips,  then  smiled  uncer- 
tainly. "You've  got  me  scared,"  she  said,  stepped 
back  and  sat  down,  her  hands  in  her  muff. 
"What  is  it?"  she  asked;  and  in  that  moment  of 
waiting  she  was  sickly  reminded  of  other  moments 
in  her  life  —  of  the  nearing  sound  of  Pierre's  webs 
on  a  crystal  winter  night,  of  the  sound  of  Pros- 
per's  footsteps  going  away  from  her  up  the  moun- 
tain trail  on  a  swordlike,  autumn  morning. 

Jasper  began  his  pacing.  Feeling  carefully  for 
delicate  phrases,  he  told  her  Betty's  accusation, 
of  her  purpose. 

Joan  took  off  her  hat,  pushed  back  the  hair 
from  her  forehead;  then,  as  he  came  to  the  end, 
she  looked  up  at  him.  Her  pupils  were  larger  than 
usual  and  the  light,  frosty  tint  of  rose  had  left 
her  cheeks. 


Gray  Envelopes  249 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  that  again?"  she 
asked. 

He  did  so,  more  explicitly. 

"She  thinks,  Betty  thinks,  that  I  have  been  — • 
that  we  have  been  — •?  She  thinks  that  of  me?  No 
wonder  she  has  n't  been  coming  to  see  me ! "  She 
stopped,  staring  blindly  at  him;  then,  "You 
must  tell  her  it  is  n't  true,"  she  said  pitifully, 
and  the  quiver  of  her  lips  hurt  him. 

"Ah!  But  she  doesn't  want  to  believe  that, 
my  dear.  She  wants  to  believe  the  worst.  It  is  her 
opportunity  to  escape  me." 

"  Have  n't  you  loved  her?  Have  you  hurt  her?  " 
asked  Joan. 

"God  knows  I  have  loved  her.  I  have  never 
hurt  her  — •  consciously.  Even  she  cannot  think 
that  I  have." 

"Why  must  she  blame  me?  Why  do  I  have  to 
be  brought  into  this,  Mr.  Morena?  Can't  she  go 
away  from  you?  Why  do  the  lawyers  have  to 
take  it  up?  You  are  unhappy,  and  I  am  so  sorry. 
But  you  would  n't  want  her  to  stay  if  —  if  she 
does  n't  love  you?" 

"I  want  her.  I  mean  to  keep  her  or  —  break 
her."  He  turned  his  back  to  say  this  and  went 
toward  the  window.  Joan,  fascinated,  watched 
his  fingers  working  into  one  another,  tightening, 


250  The  Estray 

crushing.  "It's  another  man  she  wants,"  he  said 
hoarsely,  "and  if  I  can  prevent  it,  she  shall  not 
have  him.  I  will  force  her  to  keep  her  vows  to  me 
-  force  her.  If  it  kills  her,  I  '11  break  this  passion, 
this  fancy.  I'll  have  her  back — "  He  wheeled 
round,  showing  a  twitching  face.  "I'll  prove  her 
infidelity  whether  she's  been  unfaithful  or  not, 
and  then  I'll  take  her  back,  after  the  world  has 
given  her  one  of  its  names  — " 

"You  don't  love  her,"  said  Joan,  very  white. 
"You  want  to  brand  her." 

"By  God!"  swore  the  Jew,  "and  I  will  brand 
her.  I'll  brand  her." 

He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  brought  out  the 
small  envelope  Woodward  Kane  had  handed  to 
him  the  day  before.  He  stood  turning  the  letter 
about  in  his  hands  as  though  some  such  meaning- 
less occupation  was  a  necessity  to  him.  Joan's 
eyes,  falling  upon  the  letter,  widened  and  fixed. 

"She  has  written  to  me,"  said  Jasper.  "She 
wants  her  liberty.  She  wants  it  in  such  a  way  that 
she  will  fly  clear  and  I  —  yes,  and  you,  too,  will 
be  left  in  the  mud.  There's  a  man  somewhere,  of 
course.  She  thinks  she  has  evidence,  witnesses 
against  me.  I  don't  know  what  rubbish  she  has 
got  together.  But  I'm  going  to  fight  her.  I'm 
going  to  win.  I'll  save  you  if  I  can,  Jane;  if 


Gray  Envelopes  251 

not,  of  course  I  am  at  your  service  for  any 
amends  — •" 

He  stopped  in  his  halting  speech,  for  Joan  had 
stood  up  and  was  moving  across  the  room,  her 
eyes  fastened  on  the  letter  in  his  hands.  She  had 
the  air  of  a  sleep-walker. 

She  opened  a  drawer  of  her  desk,  took  out  an 
old  tin  box,  once  used  for  tobacco,  and  drew 
forth  a  small,  gray  envelope  torn  in  two.  Then 
she  came  back  to  him  and  said,  "Let  me  see  that 
letter,"  and  he  obeyed  as  though  she  had  the 
right  to  ask. 

She  took  his  letter  and  hers  and  compared  the 
two,  the  small,  gray  squares  lying  unopened  on 
her  knee,  and  she  spoke  incomprehensibly. 

"Betty  is  'the  tall  child,'"  she  said,  and 
laughed  with  a  catch  in  her  breath. 

Jasper  looked  at  the  envelopes.  They  were 
identical ;  Betty's  gray  note-paper  crossed  by 
Betty's  angular,  upright  hand,  very  bold,  very 
black.  The  torn  envelope  was  addressed  to  Pros- 
per Gael.  Jasper  took  it,  opened  each  half,  laid 
the  parts  together,  and  read: 

Jasper  is  dying.  By  the  time  you  get  this  he  will 
be  dead.  If  you  can  forgive  me  for  having  failed  you 
in  courage  last  year,  come  back.  What  I  have  been 
to  you  before  I  will  be  again,  only,  this  time,  we  can 
love  openly.  Come  back. 


The  Estray 

"Jane,"  -  Morena  spoke  brokenly,  -  "what 
does  it  mean?" 

"He  built  that  cabin  in  Wyoming  for  her," 
said  Joan,  speaking  as  though  Jasper  had  seen 
the  canon  hiding-place  and  known  its  history, 
"and  she  did  n't  come.  He  brought  me  there  on 
his  sled.  I  was  hurt.  I  was  terribly  hurt.  He  took 
care  of  me  — " 

"Prosper?"  Jasper  thrust  in.  His  face  was 
drawn  with  excitement. 

"Yes.  Prosper  Gael.  I  was  there  with  him  for 
months.  At  first  I  was  n't  strong  enough  to  go 
away,  and  then,  after  a  while,  I  tried.  But  I  was 
too  lonely  and  sorrowful.  In  the  spring  I  loved 
him.  I  thought  I  loved  him.  He  wanted  me.  I  was 
all  alone  in  the  world.  I  did  n't  know  that  he 
loved  another  woman.  I  thought  she  was  dead  - 
like  Pierre.  Prosper  had  clothes  for  her  there.  I 
suppose  —  I  Ve  thought  it  out  since  —  that  she 
was  to  leave  as  if  for  a  short  journey,  and  then 
secretly  go  on  that  long  one,  and  she  could  n't 
take  many  things  with  her.  So  he  had  beautiful 
stuffs  for  her  —  and  a  little  suit  to  wear  in  the 
snow.  That's  how  I  came  to  call  her  'the  tall 
child,'  seeing  that  little  suit,  long  and  narrow. 
.  .  .  This  letter  came  one  morning,  one  awfully 
bright  morning.  He  read  it  and  went  out  and  the 


Gray  Envelopes  253 

next  day  he  went  away.  Afterwards  I  found  the 
letter  torn  in  two  beside  his  desk  on  the  floor.  I 
took  it  and  I've  always  kept  it.  'The  tall  child'! 
He  looked  so  terrible  when  I  called  her  that.  .  .  . 
And  she  was  your  Betty  all  the  time!" 

"Yes,"  said  Morena  slowly.  "She  was  my 
Betty  all  the  time."  He  gave  her  a  twisted  smile 
and  put  the  two  papers  carefully  into  an  inside 
pocket.  "I  am  going  to  keep  this  letter,  Jane. 
Truly  the  ways  of  the  Lord  are  past  finding  out." 

Joan  looked  at  him  in  growing  uneasiness.  Her 
mind,  never  quick  to  take  in  all  the  bearings  and 
the  consequences  of  her  acts,  was  beginning  to 
work.  "What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it,  Mr. 
Morena?  I  don't  want  you  to  do  Betty  a  hurt. 
She  must  have  loved  Prosper  Gael.  Perhaps  she 
still  loves  him." 

This  odd  appeal  drew  another  difficult  smile 
from  Betty's  husband.  "Quite  obviously  she  still 
loves  him,  Jane.  She  is  divorcing  me  so  that  she 
can  marry  him." 

"But,  Mr.  Morena,  I  don't  believe  he  will 
marry  her  now.  He  is  tired  of  her.  He  is  that  kind 
of  lover.  He  gets  tired.  Now  he  would  like  to 
marry  me.  He  told  me  so.  Perhaps  —  if  Betty 
knew  that  —  she  might  come  back  to  you,  with- 
out your  branding  her." 


254  The  Estray 

Jasper  was  startled  out  of  his  vengeful  still- 
ness. 

"Prosper  Gael  wants  to  marry  you?  He  has 
told  you  so?" 

"Yes."  She  was  sad  and  humbled.  "Now  he 
wants  to  marry  me  and  once  he  told  me  things 
about  marrying.  He  said  "  -  Joan  quoted  slowly, 
her  eyes  half-closed  in  Prosper's  manner,  her 
voice  a  musical  echo  of  his  thin,  vibrant  tone  — 
"It's  man's  most  studied  insult  to  woman." 

"Yes.  That's  Prosper,"  murmured  Jasper. 

"I  would  n't  marry  him,  Mr.  Morena,  even  if 
I  could  —  not  if  I  were  to  be  —  burnt  for  refus- 
ing him." 

Jasper  looked  probingly  at  her,  a  new  specula- 
tion in  his  eyes.  She  had  begun  to  fit  definitely 
into  his  plans.  It  seemed  there  might  be  a  way  to 
frustrate  Betty  and  to  keep  a  hold  upon  his  valu- 
able protegee.  "Are  you  so  sure  of  that,  Jane?" 

"Ah!"  she  answered;  "y°u  doubt  it  because  I 
once  thought  I  loved  him?  But  you  don't  know 
all  about  me  ..." 

He  stood  silent,  busy  with  his  weaving.  At  last 
he  looked  at  her  rather  blankly,  impersonally. 
Joan  was  conscious  of  a  frightened,  lonely  chill. 
She  put  out  her  hand  uncertainly,  a  wrinkle  ap- 
pearing sharp  and  deep  between  her  eyes. 


Gray  Envelopes  255 

"  Mr.  Morena,  please  —  I  have  n't  any  one  but 
you.  I  don't  understand  very  well  what  this 
divorcing  rightly  means.  Nor  what  they  will  do 
to  me.  Will  you  be  thinking  of  me  a  little?  I 
would  n't  ask  it,  for  I  know  you  are  unhappy 
and  bothered  enough,  but,  you  see  — " 

He  did  not  notice  the  hand.  "It  will  come  out 
right,  Jane.  Don't  worry,"  he  said  with  absent 
gentleness.  "Keep  your  mind  on  your  work.  I'll 
look  out  for  your  best  interests.  Be  sure  of  that." 
He  came  near  to  her,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  ready 
to  go,  "Try  to  forget  all  about  it,  will  you?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  do  that.  I  feel  sort  of  —  burnt. 
Betty  thinking  —  that!  But  I  '11  do  my  work  just 
the  same,  of  course." 

She  sighed  heavily  and  sat,  the  unnoticed 
hand  clasped  in  its  fellow. 

When  he  had  gone  she  called  nervously  for 
her  maid.  She  had  a  hitherto  unknown  dread  of 
being  alone.  But  when  Mathilde,  chosen  by 
Betty,  came  with  her  furtive  step  and  treacher- 
ous eyes,  Joan  invented  some  duty  for  her.  It  oc- 
curred to  her  that  Mathilde  might  be  one  of 
Betty's  witnesses.  For  some  time  the  girl's  watch- 
fulness and  intrusions  had  become  irritatingly 
noticeable.  And  Morena  was  Joan's  only  fre- 
quent and  informal  visitor. 


256  The  Estray 

"Mathilde  thinks  I  am  —  that!"  Joan  said  to 
herself;  and  afterwards,  with  a  burst  of  weeping, 
"And,  of  course,  that  is  what  I  am."  Her  past 
sin  pressed  upon  her  and  she  trembled,  remember- 
ing Pierre's  wistful,  seeking  face.  If  he  should 
find  her  now,  he  would  find  her  branded,  indeed 
—  now  he  could  never  believe  that  she  had  in- 
deed been  innocent  of  guilt  in  the  matter  of 
Holliwell.  Her  father  had  first  put  a  mark  upon 
her.  Since  then  the  world  had  only  deepened  his 
revenge. 

There  followed  a  sleepless,  dry,  and  aching 
night. 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  SPIDER 

HULLO.  Is  this  Mrs.  Morena?" 
Betty  held  the  receiver  languidly.  Her 
face  had  grown  very  thin  and  her  eyes  were 
patient.  They  were  staring  now  absently  through 
the  front  window  of  Woodward  Kane's  sitting- 
room  at  a  day  of  driving  April  rain. 

"Yes.  This  is  Mrs.  Morena." 

The  next  speech  changed  her  into  a  flushed 
and  palpitating  girl. 

"Mr.  Gael  wishes  to  know,  madam," — the 
man-servant  recited  his  lesson  automatically,  — 
"if  you  have  seen  the  exhibition  of  Foster's 
water-colors,  Fifty-eighth  Street  and  Fifth  Ave- 
nue. He  wants  to  know  if  you  will  be  there  this 
afternoon  at  five  o'clock.  No.  88  in  the  inner 
room  is  the  picture  he  would  especially  like  you 
to  notice,  madam." 

Betty's  hand  and  voice  were  trembling. 

"No.  I  have  n't  seen  it."  She  hesitated,  look- 
ing at  the  downpour.  "Tell  him,  please,  that  I 
will  be  there." 

Her  voice  trailed  off  doubtfully. 


258  The  Estray 

The  man  at  the  other  end  clipped  out  a  "  Very 
well,  madam,"  and  hung  up. 

Betty  was  puzzled.  Why  had  Prosper  sent  her 
this  message,  made  this  appointment  by  his  ser- 
vant? Perhaps  because  he  was  afraid  that,  in  her 
exaggerated  caution,  she  might  refuse  to  meet 
him  if  she  could  explain  to  him  the  reason  for  her 
refusal,  or  gauge  the  importance  of  his  request. 
With  a  servant  she  could  do  neither,  and  the  very 
uncertainty  would  force  her  to  accept.  It  was  a 
dreadful  day.  Nobody  would  be  out,  certainly 
not  at  the  tea-hour,  to  look  at  Foster's  pictures 
—  an  insignificant  exhibition.  Betty  felt  trium- 
phant. At  last,  this  far  too  acquiescent  lover  had 
rebelled  against  her  decree  of  silence  and  separa- 
tion. 

At  five  o'clock  she  stepped  out  of  her  taxicab, 
made  a  run  for  shelter,  and  found  herself  in  the 
empty  exhibition  rooms.  She  checked  her  wrap 
and  her  umbrella,  took  a  catalogue  from  the 
little  table,  chatted  for  a  moment  with  the  man 
in  charge,  then  moved  about,  looking  carelessly 
at  the  pictures.  No.  88  in  the  inner  room!  Her 
heart  was  beating  violently,  the  hand  in  her  muff 
was  cold.  She  went  slowly  toward  the  inner  room 
and  saw  at  once  that,  under  a  small  canvas  at  its 
far  end,  Prosper  stood  waiting  for  her. 


The  Spider  259 

He  waited  even  after  he  had  seen  her  smile  and 
quickening  step,  and  when  he  did  come  forward, 
it  was  with  obvious  reluctance.  Betty's  smile 
faded.  His  face  was  haggard  and  grim,  unlike 
itself;  his  eyes  lack-luster  as  she  had  never  seen 
them.  This  was  not  the  face  of  an  impatient 
lover.  It  was  —  she  would  not  name  it,  but  she 
was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  angry  sickness. 

He  took  her  hand  and  forced  a  smile. 

"Betty,  I  thought  you  disapproved  of  this 
kind  of  thing.  I  think,  myself,  it 's  rather  impru- 
dent to  arrange  a  meeting  through  your  maid." 

Betty  jerked  away  her  hand,  drew  a  sharp 
breath.  "What  do  you  mean?  I  did  n't  arrange 
this  meeting.  It  was  you  —  your  man." 

They  became  simultaneously  aware  of  a  trap. 
It  had  sprung  upon  them.  With  the  look  of 
trapped  things,  they  stared  at  each  other,  and 
Betty  instinctively  looked  back  over  her  shoulder. 
There  stood  Jasper  in  the  doorway  of  the  room. 
He  looked  like  the  most  casual  of  visitors  to  an 
art-gallery,  he  carried  a  catalogue  in  his  hand. 
When  he  saw  that  he  was  seen  he  smiled  easily 
and  came  over  to  them. 

"You  will  have  to  forgive  me,"  he  murmured 
pleasantly;  "you  see,  it  was  necessary  to  see  you 
both  together  and  Betty  is  not  willing  to  allow 


260  The  Estray 

me  an  interview.  I  am  sorry  to  have  chosen  a 
public  place  and  to  have  used  a  trick  to  get  you 
here,  but  I  could  not  think  of  any  other  plan. 
This  is  really  private  enough.  I  have  arranged 
this  exhibition  for  Foster  and  it  is  closed  to  the 
public  to-day.  We  got  in  by  special  permit  —  a 
fact  you  probably  missed.  And,  after  all,  civilized 
people  ought  to  be  able  to  talk  about  anything 
without  excitement." 

Betty's  eyes  glared  at  him.  "I  will  not  stay! 
This  is  insufferable!" 

But  he  put  out  his  hand  and  something  in  his 
gesture  compelled  her.  She  sat  down  on  the 
round,  plush  seat  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and 
looked  up  at  the  two  men  helplessly.  Joan  had 
once  leaned  in  a  doorway,  silent  and  unconsulted, 
while  two  men,  her  father  and  Pierre,  settled 
their  property  rights  in  her.  Betty  was,  after  all, 
in  no  better  case.  She  listened,  whiter  and  whiter, 
till  at  the  last  she  slowly  raised  her  muff  and 
pressed  it  against  her  twisted  mouth. 

Morena  stood  with  his  hand  resting  on  the 
high  back  of  the  circular  seat  almost  directly 
above  Betty's  head.  It  seemed  to  hold  her  there 
like  a  bar.  But  it  was  at  Prosper  he  looked,  to 
Prosper  he  spoke.  "My  friend,"  he  began,  and 
the  accentuation  of  the  Hebraic  quality  of  his 


The  Spider  261 

voice  had  an  instantaneous  effect  upon  his  two 
listeners.  Both  Prosper  and  Betty  knew  he  was 
master  of  some  intense  agitation.  They  were 
conscious  of  an  increasing  rapidity  of  their  pulses. 
"My  friend,  I  thought  that  I  knew  you  fairly 
well,  as  one  man  knows  another,  but  I  find  that 
there  have  been  certain  limits  to  my  knowledge. 
How  extraordinary  it  is !  This  inner  world  of  our 
own  lives  which  we  keep  closely  to  ourselves!  I 
have  a  friend,  yes,  a  very  good  friend,  a  very 
dear  friend,"  —  the  ironic  insistence  upon  this 
word  gave  Prosper  the  shock  of  a  repeated  blow, 
—  "and  I  fancy,  in  the  ignorance  of  my  conceit, 
that  this  friend's  life  is  sufficiently  open  to  my 
understanding.  I  see  him  leave  college,  I  see  him 
go  out  on  various  adventures.  I  share  with  him, 
by  letters  and  confidences,  the  excitement  of 
these  adventures.  I  know  with  regret  that  he 
suffers  from  ill-health  and  goes  West,  and  there, 
with  a  great  deal  of  sympathy,  I  imagine  him 
living,  drearily  enough,  in  some  small,  health- 
giving  Western  town,  writing  his  book  and  later 
his  play  which  he  has  so  generously  allowed  me 
to  produce." 

"What  the  devil  are  you  after,  Jasper?" 
"But  I  do  my  friend  an  injustice,"  went  on 
the  manager,  undiverted.  "  His  career  is  infinitely 


262  The  Estray 

more  romantic.  He  has  built  himself  a  little  log 
house  amongst  the  mountains,  and  he  has  deco- 
rated it  and  laid  in  a  supply  of  dainty  and  exqui- 
site stuffs.  I  believe  that  there  is  even  an  outing 
suit,  small  and  narrow  — " 

"My  God!"  said  Prosper,  very  low. 

There  was  a  silence.  Jasper  moved  slightly,  and 
Prosper  started,  but  the  Jew  stayed  in  his  former 
place,  only  that  he  bent  his  head  a  little,  half- 
closed  his  eyes,  and  marked  time  with  the  hand 
that  was  not  buried  in  the  plush  above  Betty's 
head.  He  recited  in  a  heavy  voice,  and  it  was 
here  that  Betty  raised  her  muff! 

Jasper  is  dying.  By  the  time  you  get  this  letter  he 
will  be  dead.  If  you  can  forgive  me  for  having  failed 
in  courage  last  year,  come  back.  What  I  have  been  to 
you  before,  I  will  be  to  you  again,  only  this  time  we 
can  love  openly.  Come  back. 

"I  am  going  mad!"  said  Prosper  harshly, 
and  indeed  his  face  had  a  pinched,  half-crazy 
look. 

The  Jew  waved  his  hand.  "Oh,  no,  no,  no.  It  is 
only  that  you  are  making  a  discovery.  Letters 
should  be  burnt,  my  friend,  not  torn  and  thrown 
away,  but  burnt."  He  stood  up  to  his  stateliest 
height  and  he  made  a  curious  and  rather  terrible 
gesture  of  breaking  something  between  his  two 


The  Spider  263 

hands.  "I  have  this  letter  and  I  hold  you  and 
Betty  —  so!"  he  said  softly  —  "so!" 

Betty  spoke.  "I  might  have  told  you  that  I 
loved  him,  that  I  have  loved  him  for  years, 
Jasper.  If  you  use  this  evidence,  if  you  bring  this 
counter-suit,  it  will  bring  about  the  same,  the 
very  same,  result.  Prosper  and  I  — "  She  broke 
off  choking. 

"Of  course.  Betty  and  I  will  be  married  at 
once,  as  soon  as  she  gets  her  divorce,  or  you  get 
yours."  But  Prosper 's  voice  was  hollow  and 
strained. 

"You  will  be  married,  Betty,"  went  on  Jasper 
as  calmly  as  before;  "you,  branded  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world  as  an  unfaithful  wife,  will  be  married 
to  a  man  who  has  ceased  to  love  you." 

"That  is  not  true,"  said  Betty. 

"Look  at  his  face,  my  dear.  Look  at  it  care- 
fully. Now,  watch  it  closely.  Prosper  Gael,  if  I 
should  tell  that  with  a  little  patience,  a  little  skill, 
a  little  unselfishness,  you  could  win  a  certain 
woman  who  once  loved  you  —  eh?  —  a  certain 
Jane  West,  could  you  bring  yourself  to  marry 
this  discarded  wife  of  mine?" 

Betty  sprang  up  and  caught  Prosper's  arm  in 
her  small  hand. 

"He  is  tired  of  you,  Betty.  He  loves  Jane 


264  The  Estray 

West."  Jasper  laughed  shortly,  looking  at  the 
tableau  they  made:  Prosper  white,  caught  in 
the  teeth  of  honor,  his  face  set  to  hide  its  secret, 
Betty  reading  his  eyes,  his  soul. 

"1  am  entirely  yours,  in  your  hands,"  said 
Prosper  Gael. 

Betty  shook  his  arm  and  let  it  go.  "You  are 
lying.  You  love  the  woman.  Do  you  think  I  can't 
see?" 

"It  will  be  a  very  strange  divorce  suit,"  went 
on  Jasper.  "Your  lawyers,  Betty,  will  perhaps 
prove  your  case.  My  lawyers  will  certainly  prove 
mine,  and,  when  we  find  ourselves  free,  our  - 
our  lovers  will  then  unite  in  holy  matrimony  - 
rather  an  original  outcome." 

"Will  you  go,  Prosper?"  asked  Betty.  It  was 
a  command. 

He  saw  that,  at  that  moment,  his  presence  was 
intolerable  to  her. 

"Of  course.  If  you  wish  it.  Jasper,  you  know 
where  to  find  me,  and,  Betty,"  —  he  turned  to 
her  with  a  weary  tenderness,  —  "forgive  me  and 
make  use  of  me,  if  you  will,  as  you  will." 

He  went  out  quickly,  feeling  himself  a  coward 
to  leave  her,  knowing  that  he  would  be  a  coward 
to  stay  to  watch  the  anguish  of  her  broken  heart 
and  pride.  For  an  instant  he  did  hesitate  and  look 


The  Spider  265 

back.  They  were  standing  together,  calmly,  man 
and  wife.  What  could  he  do  to  help  them,  he  that 
had  broken  their  lives? 

Betty  turned  to  Jasper,  still  with  the  muff  be- 
fore her  mouth,  looking  at  him  above  it  with  her 
wide,  childlike,  desperate  eyes. 

"What  do  you  get  out  of  this,  Jasper?  I  will 
go  to  Woodward.  I  will  never  come  back  to  you. 
...  Is  it  revenge?" 

"If  so,"  said  Jasper,  "it  isn't  yet  complete. 
Betty,  you  have  been  rash  to  pit  yourself  against 
me.  You  must  have  known  that  I  would  break 
you  utterly.  I  will  break  you,  my  dear,  and  I  will 
have  you  back,  and  I  will  be  your  master  instead 
of  your  servant,  and  I  will  love  you  — " 

"You  must  be  mad.  I'm  afraid  of  you.  Please 
let  me  go." 

"In  a  moment,  when  you  have  learned  what 
home  you  have  to  go  to.  This  morning  I  had  an 
interview  with  your  brother  in  his  office,  and  he 
wrote  this  letter  that  I  have  in  my  pocket  and 
asked  me  to  give  it  to  you." 

Betty  laid  down  her  muff,  showing  at  last  the 
pale  and  twisted  mouth.  Jasper  watched  her  read 
her  brother's  letter,  and  his  eyes  were  as  patient 
and  observant  as  the  eyes  of  a  skillful  doctor  who 
has  given  a  dangerous  but  necessary  draught. 


266  The  Estray 

Betty  read  the  small,  sharp,  careful  writing, 
very  familiar  to  her. 

I  have  instructed  your  maid  to  pack  your  things 
and  to  return  at  once  to  your  husband's  house.  He  is 
a  much  too  merciful  man.  You  have  treated  him 
shamelessly.  I  can  find  no  excuse  for  you.  My  house 
is  definitely  closed  to  you.  I  will  send  you  no  money, 
allow  you  no  support,  countenance  you  in  no  way. 
This  is  final.  You  have  only  one  course,  to  return 
humbly  and  with  penitence  to  your  husband,  sub- 
mit yourself  to  him,  and  learn  to  love  and  honor  and 
obey  him  as  he  deserves.  The  evidence  of  your  guilt 
is  incontrovertible.  I  utterly  disbelieve  your  story 
against  him.  It  is  part  of  your  sin,  and  it  is  easily  to 
be  explained  in  the  light  of  my  present  knowledge  of 
your  real  character.  Whether  you  return  to  Morena 
or  not,  I  emphatically  reassert  that  I  will  not  see  you 
or  speak  to  you  again.  You  are  to  my  mind  a  woman 
of  shameless  life,  such  a  woman  as  I  should  feel 
justified  in  turning  out  of  any  decent  household. 

WOODWARD  KANE 

The  room  turned  giddily  about  Betty.  She  saw 
the  whole  roaring  city  turn  about  her,  and  she 
knew  that  there  was  no  home  in  it  for  her.  She 
could  go  to  Prosper  Gael,  but  at  what  horrible 
sacrifice  of  pride,  and,  if  Jasper  now  refused  to 
bring  suit,  could  she  ask  this  man,  who  no  longer 
loved  her,  to  keep  her  as  his  mistress?  What  could 
she  do?  Where  could  she  turn?  How  could  she 
keep  herself  alive?  For  the  first  time,  life,  stripped 


The  Spider  267 

of  everything  but  its  hard  and  ugly  bones,  faced 
her.  She  had  always  been  sheltered,  been  depend- 
ent, been  loved.  Once  before  she  had  lost  courage 
and  had  failed  to  venture  beyond  the  familiar 
shelter  of  custom  and  convention.  Now,  she  was 
again  most  horribly  afraid.  Anything  was  better 
than  this  feeling  of  being  lost,  alone.  She  looked 
at  Jasper.  At  that  moment  he  was  nothing  but  a 
protector,  a  means  of  life,  and  he  knew  it. 

"Will  you  come  home  with  me  now?  "  he  asked 
her  bitterly. 

Betty  forced  the  twisted  mouth  to  speech. 
"What  else  is  there  for  me  to  do?"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  CLEAN  WILD  THING 

THE  Reverend  Francis  Holliwell."  Morena 
turned  the  card  over  and  over  in  his  hand. 
"Holliwell.  Holliwell.  Frank  Holliwell."  Yes. 
One  of  the  fellows  that  had  dropped  out.  Big, 
athletic  youngster;  left  college  in  his  junior  year 
and  studied  for  the  ministry.  Fine  chap.  Popular. 
Especially  decent  to  him  when  he  had  begun  to 
play  that  difficult  role  of  a  man  without  a  coun- 
try. Now  here  was  the  card  of  the  Reverend 
Francis  Holliwell  and  the  man  himself,  no  doubt, 
waiting  below.  Jasper  tried  to  remember.  He'd 
heard  something  about  Frank.  Oh,  yes.  The 
young  clergyman  had  given  up  a  fashionable 
parish  in  the  East  —  small  Norman  church, 
wealthy  parishioners,  splendid  stipend,  beautiful 
stone  Norman  rectory  —  thrown  it  all  up  to  go 
West  on  some  unheard-of  mission  in  the  sage- 
brush. He  was  back  now,  probably  for  money, 
donations  wanted  for  a  building,  church  or  hos- 
pital or  library.  Jasper  in  imagination  wrote  out 
a  generous  check.  Before  going  down  he  glanced 
at  the  card  again  and  noticed  some  lines  across 
the  back: 


The  Clean  Wild  Thing          269 

This  is  to  introduce  one  of  my  best  friends,  Pierre 
Landis,  of  Wyoming.  Please  be  of  service  to  him. 
His  mission  has  and  deserves  to  have  my  full  sym- 
pathy. 

So,  after  all,  it  was  n't  Holliwell  below  and  the 
check-book  would  not  be  needed.  "Pierre  Landis, 
of  Wyoming."  Jasper  went  down  the  stairs  and 
on  the  way  he  remembered  a  letter  received  from 
Yarnall  a  long  time  before.  He  remembered  it 
with  an  accession  of  alarm.  "I've  probably  let 
hell  loose  for  your  protegee,  Jane;  given  your 
address,  and  incidentally  hers,  to  a  fellow  who 
wants  her  pretty  badly.  His  name 's  Pierre  Lan- 
dis. You're  a  pretty  good  judge  of  white  men. 
Size  him  up  and  do  what's  best  for  Jane." 

For  some  time  after  receiving  this  letter, 
Jasper  had  expected  the  appearance  of  this  Pierre 
Landis,  then  had  forgotten  him.  The  fellow  who 
wanted  Jane  so  badly  had  been  a  long  while  on 
his  way  to  lier.  Remembering  and  wondering, 
the  manager  opened  the  crimson  curtains  and 
stepped  into  the  presence  of  Pierre. 

Even  if  he  had  had  no  foreknowledge,  Jasper 
felt  that,  at  sight  of  his  visitor,  his  fancy  would 
have  jumped  to  Joan.  It  was  the  eyes;  he  had 
seen  no  others  but  hers  like  them  for  clarity;  far- 
seeing,  grave  eyes  that  held  a  curious  depth  of 


270  The  Estray 

light.  Here  was  one  of  Joan's  kindred,  one  of  the 
clean,  wild  things. 

Then  came  the  gentle  Western  drawl.  "I'm 
right  sorry  to  trouble  you,  Mr.  Morena." 

Jasper  took  a  brown  hand  that  had  the  feel  of 
iron.  The  man's  face,  on  a  level  with  Jasper's, 
was  very  brown  and  lean.  It  had  a  worn  look,  a 
trifle  desperate,  perhaps,  in  the  lines  of  lip  and 
the  expression  of  the  smoke-colored  eyes.  Jasper, 
sensitive  to  undercurrents,  became  aware  that  he 
stood  in  some  fashion  for  a  forlorn  hope  in  the 
life  of  this  Pierre.  At  the  same  time  the  manager 
remembered  a  confidence  of  Jane's.  She  had  been 
"  afraid  of  some  one."  She  had  been  running 
away.  There  was  one  that  must  n't  find  her, 
and  to  run  away  from  him,  that  was  the  busi- 
ness of  her  life.  Pierre  Landis  was  this  "one," 
the  something  wild  and  clean  that  had  at  last 
come  searching  even  into  this  city.  It  was  neces- 
sary that  Jane's  present  protector  should  be  very 
careful.  There  must  be  no  running  away  this  time, 
and  Pierre  must  be  warned  off.  Jasper  had  plans 
of  his  own  for  his  star  player.  For  one  thing  she 
must  draw  Prosper  Gael  completely  out  of  Betty's 
life. 

Jasper  made  his  guest  comfortable,  sat  oppo- 
site to  him,  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  Although 


The  Clean  Wild  Thing          271 

Pierre  had  accepted  one,  he  did  not  smoke.  He 
was  far  too  disturbed. 

"Frank  Holliwell  gave  me  a  note  to  you,  Mr. 
Morena.  I  got  your  address  some  years  ago  from 
Yarnall,  of  Lazy-Y  Ranch,  Middle  Fork,  Wyo~ 
ming.  I've  been  gettin'  my  affairs  into  shape 
ever  since,  so  that  I  could  come  East.  I  don't 
rightly  know  whether  Yarnall  would  have  wrote 
to  you  concernin'  me  or  no." 

"  Yes.  He  did  write  —  just  a  line  —  two  years 
ago." 

Pierre  studied  his  own  long,  brown  hands, 
turning  the  soft  hat  between  them.  When  he 
lifted  his  eyes,  they  were  intensely  blue.  It  was 
as  though  blue  fire  had  consumed  the  smoke. 

"I've  been  takin'  after  a  girl.  She  was  called 
Jane  on  Yarnall's  ranch  an'  she  was  cook  there 
for  the  outfit.  Nobody  knowed  her  story  nor  her 
name.  She  left  the  mornin'  I  came  in  an'  I  did  n't 
set  eyes  on  her.  You  were  takin'  her  East  to  teach 
her  to  play-act  for  you.  I  don't  know  whether 
you  done  so  or  not,  but  I  've  come  here  to  learn 
where  she  is  so  that  I  can  find  out  if  she's  the 
woman  I'm  lookin'  for." 

Morena  smiled  kindly.  "You've  come  a  long 
way,  Mr.  Landis,  on  an  uncertainty." 

"Yes,  sir."  Pierre  did  not  smile.  He  was  hold- 


272  The  Estray 

ing  himself  steady.  "  But  I  'm  used  to  uncertainty. 
There  ain't  no  uncertainty  that  can  keep  nie 
from  seekin'  after  the  person  I  want."  He  paused, 
the  eyes  still  fixed  upon  Morena,  who,  uncom- 
fortable under  them,  veiled  himself  thinly  in 
cigarette  smoke.  "I  want  to  see  this  Jane," 
Pierre  ended  gently. 

"Nothing  easier,  Landis.  I'll  give  you  a  ticket 
to  'The  Leopardess.'  She  is  acting  the  title  part. 
She  is  my  leading  lady  and  a  very  extraordinary 
young  actress.  Of  course,  it's  none  of  my  busi- 
ness, but  in  a  way  I  am  Miss  West's  guardian  —  " 

"Miss  West?" 

"Yes.  That  is  Jane's  name  —  Jane  West.  You 
think  it  is  an  assumed  one?" 

Pierre  stood  up.  "I'm  not  thinkm*  on  this 
trip,"  he  said;  "I'm  hopin'." 

"I  am  sorry,  but  I  am  afraid  you're  on  the 
wrong  track.  There  may  be  a  resemblance,  there 
may  even  be  a  marked  resemblance,  between 
Miss  West  and  the  person  you  want  to  find,  but 
—  again  please  forgive  me  —  I  am  in  the  place 
of  guardian  to  her  at  present  and  I  should  like  to 
know  something  of  your  business,  enough  of  it, 
that  is,  to  be  sure  that  your  sudden  appear- 
ance, if  you  happen  to  be  right  in  your  surmise, 
won't  frighten  my  leading  lady  out  of  her  wits 


The  Clean  Wild  Thing          273 

and  send  her  off  to  Kalamazoo  on  the  next 
train." 

Pierre  evidently,  resented  the  fashion  of  this 
speech.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said  with  dignity,  "not 
to  be  able  to  tell  you  anything.  I'll  be  careful 
not  to  frighten  Miss  West.  I  can  see  her  first 
from  a  distance  an'  then  — " 

"Certainly.  Certainly." 

Jasper  rang  and  directed  his  man  to  get  an 
envelope  from  an  upstairs  table.  When  it  came, 
he  handed  it  to  Pierre. 

"That  is  a  ticket  for  to-morrow  night's  per- 
formance. It's  the  best  seat  I  can  give  you, 
though  it  is  not  very  near  the  stage.  However, 
you  will  certainly  be  able  to  recognize  your  — 
Jane,  if  she  is  your  Jane." 

Pierre  pocketed  the  ticket.  "Thank  you,"  he 
murmured.  His  face  was  expressionless. 

Jasper  was  making  rapid  plans.  "Oh,  by  the 
way,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "if  you  should  stand 
near  the  stage  exit  to-night,  say  at  about  twelve 
o'clock,  you  could  see  Miss  West  come  out  and 
get  into  her  motor.  That  would  give  you  a  fairly 
close  view.  But  even  if  you  find  you  are  mistaken, 
Landis,  be  sure  to  see  'The  Leopardess.'  It's  well 
worth  your  while.  You're  going?  Won't  you  dine 
with  me  to-night?  " 


274  The  Estray 

"No,  thank  you.  I  would  n't  be  carin'  to  to- 
night. I  —  I  reckon  I  've  got  this  matter  too  much 
on  my  mind.  Thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Morena." 

"Before  you  go,  tell  me  about  Holliwell.  He 
was  a  good  friend  of  mine." 

"He  was  a  good  friend  to  most  every  one  he 
knowed.  He  was  more  than  that  to  me." 

"Then  he's  been  a  success  out  there?" 

Pierre  meditated  over  the  words.  "Success? 
Why,  yes,  I  reckon  he's  been  all  of  that." 

"A  difficult  mission,  is  n't  it?  Trying  to  bring 
you  fellows  to  God?" 

Pierre  smiled.  "I  reckon  we  get  closer  to  God 
out  there  than  you  do  here.  We  sure  get  the  fear 
of  Him  even  if  we  don't  get  nothin'  else.  When 
you  fight  winter  an'  all  outdoors  an'  come  near 
to  death  with  hosses  an'  what-not,  why,  I  guess 
you're  gettin'  close  to  somethin'  not  quite  to  be 
explained.  Holliwell,  he's  a  first-class  sin-buster, 
best  I  ever  knowed." 

Morena  laughed.  He  was  beginning  to  enjoy 
his  visitor.  "Sin-buster?" 

"That's  one  name  fer  a  parson.  Well,  sir,  I 
guess  Holliwell  is  plumb  close  to  bein'  a  prize 
devil-twister." 

"Tell  me  how  you  first  met  him.  It  ought  to  be 
a  good  story." 


The  Clean  Wild  Thing          275 

But  the  young  man's  face  grew  bleak  at  this. 
"It  ain't  a  good  story,  sir,"  he  said  grimly.  "It 
ain't  anything  like  that.  I  must  wish  you  good- 
by,  an'  thank  you  kindly." 

"But  you'll  let  me  see  you  again?  Where  are 
you  stopping?  Holliwell's  friends  are  mine." 

Pierre  gave  him  the  address  of  a  small,  down- 
town hotel,  thanked  him  again,  and,  standing  in 
the  hall,  added,  "If  I'm  wrong  in  the  notion  that 
brought  me  to  New  York,  I'll  be  goin'  back 
again  to  my  ranch,  Mr.  Morena.  I  'm  goin'  back 
to  ranchin'  on  the  old  homestead.  I've  got  it 
fixed  up."  He  seemed  to  look  through  Jasper  into 
an  enormous  distance.  Morena  was  almost  un- 
cannily aware  of  the  long,  long  journey  by  which 
this  man's  spirit  had  trodden,  of  the  desert  he 
faced  ahead  of  him  if  the  search  must  fail.  Was  it 
wrong  to  warn  Jane?  Ought  this  man  to  be  given 
his  chance?  Surely  here  stood  before  him  Jane's 
mate.  Jasper  wished  that  he  knew  more  of  the 
history  back  of  Pierre  and  the  girl.  A  man  could 
do  little  but  look  out  for  his  own  interests,  when 
he  worked  in  the  dark.  Which  would  be  the 
better  man  for  Jane?  —  this  Jane  so  trained,  so 
educated,  so  far  removed  superficially  from  the 
ungrammatical,  bronzed,  clumsily  dressed,  grace- 
ful visitor.  In  every  worldly  respect,  doubtless, 


276  The  Estray 

Prosper  Gael.  Only  —  there  were  Pierre's  eyes 
and  the  soul  looking  out  of  them. 

Jasper  said  good-bye  half -absently. 

An  hour  later  he  went  to  call  on  Jane. 

He  found  her  done  up  in  an  apron  and  a  dust- 
cap  cleaning  house  with  astonishing  spirit.  She 
and  the  Bridget,  who  had  recently  been  substi- 
tuted for  Mathilde,  were  merry.  Bridget  was  sit- 
ting on  the  sill,  her  upper  half  shut  out,  her 
round,  brick-colored  face  laughing  through  the 
pane  she  was  polishing.  Jane  was  up  a  ladder, 
dusting  books. 

She  came  down  to  greet  Morena,  and  he  saw 
regretfully  the  sad  change  in  her  face  and  bearing 
which  his  arrival  caused.  Bridget  was  sent  to  the 
kitchen.  Jane  made  apologies,  and  sitting  on  the 
ladder  step  she  looked  up  at  him  with  the  look  of 
some  one  who  expects  a  blow. 

"What  is  it  now,  Mr.  Morena?  Have  the  law- 
yers begun  to  — " 

He  had  purposely  kept  her  in  the  dark,  pur- 
posely neglected  her,  left  her  to  loneliness,  in 
the  hope  of  furthering  the  purposes  of  Prosper 
Gael. 

"I  have  n't  come  to  discuss  that,  Jane.  Soon  I 
hope  to  have  good  news  for  you.  But  to-day  I  Ve 
come  to  give  you  a  hint  —  a  warning,  in  fact  — 


The  Clean  Wild  Thing          277 

to  prepare  you  for  what  I  am  sure  will  be  a 
shock." 

"Yes?"  She  was  flushed  and  breathing  fast. 
Her  fingers  were  busy  with  the  feather-duster  on 
her  knee  and  her  eyes  were  still  waiting. 

"I  had  a  visitor  this  morning  —  Pierre  Landis, 
of  Wyoming." 

She  rose,  came  to  him,  and  clutched  his  arm. 
"Pierre?  Pierre?"  She  looked  around  her,  wild 
as  a  captured  bird.  "Oh,  I  must  go!  I  must  go!" 

"Jane,  my  child,"  —  he  put  his  arm  about  her, 
held  her  two  hands  in  his,  —  "y°u  must  do 
nothing  of  the  kind.  If  you  don't  want  this  Pierre 
to  find  you,  if  you  don't  want  him  to  come  into 
your  life,  there's  an  easy,  a  very  simple,  way  to 
put  an  end  to  his  pursuit.  Don't  you  know  that?  " 

She  stared  up  at  him,  quivering  in  his  arm. 
"No.  What  is  it?  How  can  I?  Oh,  he  must  n't  see 
me !  Never,  never,  never !  I  made  that  promise  to 
myself." 

"Jane,  you  say  yourself  that  you  are  changed, 
that  you  are  not  the  girl  he  wants  to  find." 

She  shook  her  head  desolately  enough.  "Oh, 
no,  I'm  not." 

"  He  is  n't  sure  that  Jane  West  is  the  woman 
he 's  looking  for.  He 's  following  the  faintest,  the 
most  doubtful,  of  trails.  He  heard  of  you  from 


278  The  Estray 

Yarnall;  the  description  of  you  and  your  sudden 
flight  made  him  fairly  sure  that  it  must  be  — 
you — "  Jasper  laughed.  "I'm  talking  quite  at 
random  in  a  sense,  because  I  have  n't  a  notion, 
my  dear,  who  you  are  nor  what  this  Pierre  has 
been  in  your  life.  If  you  could  tell  me —  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she  said;  "no." 

"Very  well.  Then  I'll  have  to  go  on  talking  at 
random.  Jane  at  the  Lazy-Y  Ranch  was  a 
woman  who  had  deliberately  disguised  herself. 
Jane  West  in  New  York  is  a  different  woman  alto- 
gether; but,  unless  I'm  very  wrong,  she  is  even 
more  completely  disguised  from  Pierre  Landis. 
If  you  can  convince  Pierre  that  you  are  Jane 
West,  not  any  other  woman,  certainly  not  the 
woman  he  once  knew,  are  n't  you  pretty  safely 
rid  of  him  for  always?" 

She  stood  still  now.  He  felt  that  her  fingers 
were  cold.  "Yes.  For  always.  I  suppose  so.  But 
how  can  I  do  that,  Mr.  Morena?" 

"Nothing  easier.  You're  an  actress,  aren't 
you?  I  advised  Pierre  Landis  to  stand  near  the 
stage  exit  to-night  and  watch  you  get  into  your 
motor." 

Again  she  clutched  at  him.  "Oh,  no.  Don't  — 
don't  let  him  do  that!" 

"Now,  if  you  will  make  an  effort,  look  him  in 


The  Clean  Wild  Thing          279 

the  eyes,  refuse  to  show  a  single  quiver  of  recog- 
nition, speak  to  some  one  in  the  most  artificial 
tone  you  can  manage,  pass  him  by,  and  drive 
away,  why,  would  n't  that  convince  him  that 
you  are  n't  his  quarry  —  eh?" 

She  thought!  then  slowly  drew  herself  away 
and  stood,  her  head  bent,  her  brows  drawn 
sharply  together.  "Yes.  I  suppose  so.  I  think 
I  can  do  it.  That  is  the  best  plan."  She  looked 
at  him  wildly  again.  "Then  it  will  be  over  for 
always,  won't  it?  He'll  go  away?" 

"Yes,  my  poor  child.  He  will  go  away.  He  told 
me  so.  Then,  will  you  try  to  forget  him,  to  live 
your  life  for  its  own  beautiful  sake?  I'd  like  to 
see  you  happy,  Jane." 

"Would  you?"  She  smiled  like  a  pitying 
mother.  "Why,  I've  given  up  even  dreaming  of 
that.  That  is  n't  what  keeps  me  going." 

"What  is  it,  then,  Jane?" 

"Oh,  a  queer  notion."  She  laughed  sadly.  "A 
kind  of  kid's  notion,  I  guess,  that  if  you  live 
along,  some  way,  some  time,  you'll  be  able  to 
make  up  for  things  you've  done,  and  that  per- 
haps there  '11  be  another  meeting-place  —  a  kind 
of  a  round-up  —  where  you  '11  be  fit  to  forgive 
those  you  love  and  to  be  forgiven  by  them." 

Jasper  walked  about.  He  was  touched  and 


280  The  Estray 

troubled.  Some  minutes  later  he  said  doubtfully, 
"Then  you'll  carry  through  your  purpose  of  not 
letting  Pierre  know  you?" 

"Yes.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  that.  That's 
what  I  've  got  to  do.  He  must  n't  find  me.  We 
can't  meet  here  in  this  life.  That 's  certain.  There 
are  things  that  come  between,  things  like  bars." 
She  made  a  strange  gesture  as  of  a  prisoner  run- 
ning his  fingers  across  the  barred  window  of  a 
cell.  "Thank  you  for  warning  me.  Thank  you  for 
telling  me  what  to  do."  She  smiled  faintly.  "I 
think  he  will  know  me,  anyway,"  she  said,  "but 
I  won't  know  him.  Never!  Never!" 

That  night  the  theater  was  late  in  emptying 
itself.  Jane  West  had  acted  with  especial  brilliance 
and  she  was  called  out  again  and  again.  When 
she  came  to  her  dressing-room  she  was  flushed 
and  breathless.  She  did  not  change  her  costume, 
but  drew  her  fur  coat  on  over  the  green  evening 
dress  she  had  worn  in  the  last  scene.  Then  she 
stood  before  her  mirror,  looking  herself  over  care- 
fully, critically.  Now  that  the  paint  was  washed 
off,  and  the  flush  of  excitement  faded,  she  looked 
haggard  and  white.  Her  face  was  very  thin,  its 
beautiful  bones  —  long  sweep  of  jaw,  wide  brow, 
straight,  short  nose  —  sharply  accentuated.  The 
round  throat  rising  against  the  fur  collar  looked 


The  Clean  Wild  Thing          281 

unnaturally  white  and  long.  She  sat  down  before 
her  dressing-table  and  deliberately  painted  her 
cheeks  and  lips.  She  even  altered  the  outlines  of 
her  mouth,  giving  it  a  pursed  and  doll-like  ex- 
pression, so  that  her  eyes  appeared  enormous 
and  her  nose  a  little  pinched.  Then  she  drew  a 
lock  of  waved  hair  down  across  the  middle  of  her 
forehead,  pressed  another  at  each  side  close  to 
the  corners  of  her  eyes.  This  took  from  the  un- 
usual breadth  of  brow  and  gave  her  a  much  more 
ordinary  look.  A  coat  of  powder,  heavily  applied, 
more  nearly  produced  the  effect  of  a  pink-and- 
white,  glassy-eyed  doll-baby  for  which  she  was 
trying.  Afterwards  she  turned  and  smiled  doubt- 
fully at  the  astonished  dresser. 

"Good  gracious,  Miss  West!  You  don't  look 
like  yourself  at  all!" 

"Good!" 

She  said  good-night  and  went  rapidly  down 
the  draughty  passages  and  the  concrete  stairs. 
Jasper  was  standing  inside  the  outer  door  and 
applauded  her. 

"Well  done.  If  it  were  n't  for  your  pose  and 
walk,  my  dear,  I  should  hardly  have  known  you 
myself." 

Joan  stood  beside  him,  holding  her  furs  close, 
breathing  fast  through  the  parted,  painted  lips. 


282  The  Estray 

"Is  he  here,  do  you  know?" 

"Yes.  He's  been  waiting.  I  told  him  you  might 
be  late.  Now,  keep  your  head.  Everything  de- 
pends upon  that.  Can  you  do  it?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Is  the  car  there?  I  won't  have  to 
stop?" 

"Not  an  instant.  But  give  him  a  good  looking- 
over  so  that  he'll  be  sure,  and  don't  change  the 
expression  of  your  eyes.  Feel,  make  yourself  feel 
inside,  that  he's  a  stranger.  You  know  what  I 
mean.  Good-night,  my  dear.  Good  luck.  I'll  call 
you  up  as  soon  as  you  get  home  —  that  is,  after 
I've  seen  your  pursuer  safely  back  to  his  rooms." 
But  this  last  sentence  was  addressed  to  himself. 

Joan  opened  the  door  and  stepped  out  into  the 
chill  dampness  of  the  April  night.  The  white 
arc  of  electric  light  beat  down  upon  her  as  she 
came  forward  and  it  fell  as  glaringly  upon  the 
figure  of  Pierre.  He  had  pushed  forward  from  the 
little  crowd  of  nondescripts  always  waiting  at 
a  stage  exit,  and  stood,  bareheaded,  just  at  the 
door  of  her  motor  drawn  up  by  the  curb.  She  saw 
him  instantly  and  from  the  first  their  eyes  met. 
It  was  a  horrible  moment  for  Joan.  What  it  was 
for  him,  she  could  tell  by  the  tense  pallor  of  his 
keen,  bronzed  face.  The  eyes  she  had  not  seen 
for  such  an  agony  of  years,  the  strange,  deep, 


The  Clean  Wild  Thing          283 

iris-colored  eyes,  there  they  were  now  searching 
her.  She  stopped  her  heart  in  its  beating,  she 
stopped  her  breath,  stopped  her  brain.  She  be- 
came for  those  few  seconds  just  one  thought  — 
"I  have  never  seen  you.  I  have  never  seen  you." 
She  passed  so  close  to  him  that  her  fur  touched 
his  hand,  and  she  looked  into  his  face  with  a  cool, 
half -disdainful  glitter  of  a  smile. 

"Step  aside,  please,"  she  said;  "I  must  get  in.'* 
Her  voice  was  unnaturally  high  and  quite  un- 
naturally precise. 

Pierre  said  one  word,  a  hopeless  word.  "Joan." 
It  was  a  prayer.  It  should  have  been,  "Be  Joan." 
Then  he  stepped  back  and  she  stumbled  into 
shelter. 

At  the  same  instant  another  man  —  a  man  in 
evening  dress  —  hastily  prevented  her  man  from 
closing  the  door. 

"Miss  West,  may  I  see  you  home?" 

Before  she  could  speak,  could  do  more  than 
look,  Prosper  Gael  had  jumped  in,  the  door 
slammed,  the  car  began  its  whirr,  and  they  were 
gliding  through  the  crowded,  brilliant  streets. 

Joan  had  bent  forward  and  was  rocking  to  and 
fro. 

"He  called  me  'Joan,'"  she  gasped  over  and 
over.  "He  called  me  'Joan.'" 


284  The  Estray 

"That  was  Pierre?"  Prosper  had  been  fore- 
warned by  Jasper  and  had  planned  his  part. 

She  kept  on  rocking,  holding  her  hands  on 
either  side  of  her  face. 

"I  must  go  away.  If  I  see  him  again  I  shall  die. 
I  could  never  do  that  another  time.  O  God!  His 
hand  touched  me.  He  called  me  'Joan'  ...  I 
must  go  .  .  ." 

Prosper  did  not  touch  her,  but  his  voice,  very 
friendly,  very  calm,  had  an  instantaneous  effect. 
"I  will  take  you  away." 

She  laughed  shakily.  "Again?"  she  asked,  and 
shamed  him  into  silence. 

But  after  a  while  he  began  very  reasonably, 
very  patiently: 

"I  can  take  you  away  so  that  you  need  not  be 
put  through  this  unnecessary  pain.  I  can  arrange 
it  with  Morena.  If  Pierre  sees  you  often  enough, 
he  will  be  sure  to  recognize  you.  Joan,  I  did  not 
deserve  that  'again'  and  you  know  it.  I  am  a 
changed  man.  If  you  don't  know  that  now  I  have 
the  heart  of  —  of  devotion,  of  service,  toward 
you,  you  are  indeed  a  blind  and  stupid  woman. 
But  you  do  know  it.  You  must." 

She  sat  silent  beside  him,  the  long  and  slender 
hand  between  her  face  and  him. 

"I  can  take  you  away,"  he  went  on  presently, 


The  Clean  Wild  Thing          285 

"and  keep  you  from  Pierre  until  he  has  given  up 
his  search  and  has  gone  West  again.  And  I  can 
take  you  at  once  —  in  a  day  or  two.  Your  under- 
study can  fill  the  part.  This  engagement  is  almost 
at  an  end.  I  can  make  it  up  to  Morena.  After  all, 
if  we  go,  we  shall  be  doing  Betty  and  him  a 
service." 

Joan  flung  out  her  hands  recklessly.  "Oh,"  she 
cried,  "what  does  it  matter?  Of  course  I'll  go. 
I'd  run  into  the  sea  to  escape  Pierre — "  She 
leaned  back  against  the  cushioned  seat,  rolled 
her  head  a  little  from  side  to  side  like  a  person  in 
pain.  "Take  me  away,"  she  repeated.  "I  believe 
that  if  I  stay  I  shall  go  mad.  I  '11  go  anywhere  — 
with  any  one.  Only  take  me  away." 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  LEOPARDESS 

PIERRE  stood  before  the  cheap  bureau  of 
his  ugly  hotel  bedroom  turning  a  red  slip 
of  cardboard  about  in  his  fingers.  The  gas-jet 
sputtering  above  his  head  threw  heavy  shadows 
down  on  his  face.  It  was  the  face  of  hopeless, 
heartsick  youth,  the  muscles  sagging,  the  eyes 
dull,  the  lips  tight  and  pale.  Since  last  night  when 
the  contemptuous  glitter  of  Joan's  smile  had 
fallen  upon  him,  he  had  neither  slept  nor  eaten. 
Jasper  had  joined  him  at  the  theater  exit,  had 
walked  home  with  him,  and,  while  he  was  with 
the  manager,  Pierre's  pride  and  reserve  had  held 
him  up.  Afterwards  he  had  ranged  the  city  like  a 
prairie  wolf,  ranged  it  as  though  it  had  been  an 
unpeopled  desert,  free  to  his  stride.  He  had  fixed 
his  eyes  above  and  beyond  and  walked  alone  in 
pain. 

Dawn  found  him  again  in  his  room.  What  hope 
had  sustained  him,  what  memory  of  Joan,  what 
purpose  of  tenderness  toward  her  —  these  hopes 
and  memories  and  purposes  now  choked  and 
twisted  him.  He  might  have  found  her,  his  "gel," 


The  Leopardess  287 

his  Joan,  with  her  dumb,  loving  gaze;  he  might 
have  told  her  the  story  of  his  sorrow  in  such  a 
way  that  she,  who  forgave  so  easily,  would  have 
forgiven  even  him,  and  he  might  have  com- 
forted her,  holding  her  so  and  so,  showing  her 
utterly  the  true,  unchanged,  greatly  changed 
love  of  his  chastened  heart.  This  girl,  this  love  of 
his,  whom,  in  his  drunken,  jealous  madness,  he 
had  branded  and  driven  away,  he  would  have 
brought  her  back  and  tended  her  and  made  it  up 
to  her  in  a  thousand,  in  ten  thousand,  ways. 
Pierre  knelt  by  his  bed,  his  black  head  buried  in 
the  cover,  his  arms  bent  above  it,  his  hands 
clenched.  Out  there  he  had  never  lost  hope  of 
finding  her,  but  here,  in  this  peopled  loneliness, 
with  a  memory  of  that  woman's  heartless  smile, 
he  did  at  last  despair.  In  a  strange,  torturing  way 
she  had  been  like  Joan.  His  heart  had  jumped  to 
his  mouth  at  first  sight  of  her.  And  just  there, 
to  his  shoulder  where  her  head  reached,  had 
Joan's  dear  black  head  reached  too.  Pierre 
groaned  aloud.  The  picture  of  her  was  so  vivid. 
Not  in  months  had  the  reality  of  his  "gel"  come 
so  close  to  his  imagination.  He  could  feel  her  — 
feel  her!  O  God! 

That  was  the  sort  of  night  he  had  spent  and 
the  next  day  he  passed  in  a  lethargy.  He  had  no 


288  The  Estray 

heart  to  face  the  future  now  that  the  great  pur- 
pose of  his  life  had  failed.  HolliwelPs  God  of 
comfort  and  forgiveness  forsook  him.  What  did 
he  want  with  a  God  when  that  one  comrade  of 
his  lonely,  young,  human  life  was  out  there  lost 
by  his  own  cruelty!  Perhaps  she  was  dead.  Per- 
haps the  wound  had  killed  her.  For  all  these 
years  she  might  have  been  lying  dead  somewhere 
in  the  snow,  under  the  sky.  Sharp  periods  of 
pain  followed  dull  periods  of  stupor.  Now  it  was 
night  again  and  a  recollection  of  Jasper's  theater 
ticket  had  dragged  him  to  a  vague  purpose.  He 
wanted  to  see  again  that  woman  who  had  so 
vivified  his  memory  of  Joan.  It  would  be  hateful 
to  see  her  again,  but  he  wanted  the  pain.  He 
dressed  and  groomed  himself  carefully.  Then, 
feeling  a  little  faint,  he  went  out  into  the  clatter- 
ing, glaring  night. 

Pierre's  experience  of  theater-going  was  ex- 
ceedingly small.  He  had  never  been  in  so  large  a 
play-house  as  this  one  of  Morena's;  he  had  never 
seen  so  large  and  well-dressed  an  audience;  never 
heard  a  full  and  well-trained  orchestra.  In  spite 
of  himself,  he  began  to  be  distracted,  excited, 
stirred.  When  the  curtain  rose  on  the  beautiful 
tropical  scene,  the  lush  island,  the  turquoise  sea, 
the  realistic  strip  of  golden  sand,  Pierre  gave  an 


The  Leopardess  289 

audible  oath  of  admiration  and  surprise.  The 
people  about  him  began  to  be  amused  by  the 
excitement  of  this  handsome,  haggard  young 
man,  so  graceful  and  intense,  so  different  with 
his  hardness  and  leanness,  the  brilliance  of  his 
eyes,  the  brownness  of  his  skin.  His  clothes  were 
good  enough,  but  they  fitted  him  with  an  odd  air 
of  disguise.  An  experienced  eye  would  inevitably 
have  seen  the  appropriateness  of  flannel  shirt, 
gay  silk  neck-handkerchief,  boots,  spurs,  and 
chaparreras .  Pierre  was  entirely  unaware  of  being 
interesting  or  different.  At  that  moment,  caught 
up  in  the  action  of  the  play,  he  was  as  outside  of 
himself  as  a  child. 

The  palms  of  stage-land  stirred,  the  ferns 
swayed;  between  their  tall,  vivid  greenness  came 
Joan  with  her  tread  and  grace  and  watchful  eyes 
of  a  leopardess,  her  loose,  wild  hair  decked  with 
flowers:  these  and  her  make-up  and  her  thinness 
disguised  her  completely  from  Pierre,  but  again 
his  heart  came  to  his  throat  and,  when  she  put 
her  hands  up  to  her  mouth  and  called,  his  pulses 
gave  a  leap.  He  shut  his  eyes.  He  remembered  a 
voice  calling  him  in  to  supper.  "  Pi-erre !  Pi-erre ! " 
He  could  sniff  the  smoke  of  his  cabin  fire.  He 
opened  his  eyes.  Of  course,  she  was  n't  Joan,  this 
strange,  gaunt  creature.  Besides,  his  wife  could 


290  The  Estray 

never  have  done  what  this  woman  was  doing. 
Why,  Joan  could  n't  talk  like  this,  she  could  n't 
act  to  save  her  soul !  She  was  as  simple  as  a  child, 
and  shy,  with  the  unself-conscious  shyness  of 
wild  things.  To  be  sure,  this  "actress-lady"  was 
making-believe  she  was  a  wild  thing,  and  she  was 
doing  it  almighty  well,  but  Joan  had  been  the 
reality,  and  grave  and  still,  part  of  his  own  big, 
grave,  mountain  country,  not  a  fierce,  man- 
devouring  animal  of  the  tropics.  Pierre  lived  in 
the  play  with  all  but  one  fragment  of  his  brain, 
and  that  remembered  Joan.  It  hurt  like  a  hot 
coal,  but  he  deliberately  ignored  the  pain  of  it. 
He  followed  the  action  breathlessly,  applauded 
with  contagious  fervor,  surreptitiously  rid  him- 
self of  tears,  and  when,  in  the  last  scene,  the 
angry,  jealous  woman  sprang  upon  her  tamer, 
he  muttered,  "Serve  you  right,  you  coyote!" 
with  an  oath  of  the  cow-camp  that  made  one  of 
his  neighbors  jump  and  throttle  a  startled  laugh. 

The  curtain  fell,  and  while  the  applause  rose 
and  died  down  and  rose  again,  and  the  people 
called  for  "Jane  West!  Jane  West!"  the  stage- 
director,  a  plump  little  Jew,  came  out  behind  the 
footlights  and  held  up  his  hand.  There  was  a 
gradual  silence. 

"I  want  to  make  an  interesting  announce- 


The  Leopardess  291 

ment,"  he  said;  "the  author  of  'The  Leopardess* 
has  hitherto  maintained  his  anonymity,  but  to- 
night I  have  permission  to  give  you  his  name. 
He  is  in  the  theater  to-night.  The  name  is  al- 
ready familiar  to  you  as  that  of  the  author  of  a 
popular  novel,  'The  Canon':  Prosper  Gael." 

There  was  a  stir  of  interest,  a  general  searching 
of  the  house,  clapping,  cries  of  "Author!  Author! ' 
and  in  a  few  moments  Prosper  Gael  left  his  box 
and  appeared  beside  the  director  in  answer  to 
the  calls.  He  was  entirely  self-possessed,  looked 
even  a  little  bored,  but  he  was  very  white.  He 
stood  there  bowing,  a  graceful  and  attractive 
figure,  and  he  was  about  to  begin  a  speech  when 
he  was  interrupted  by  a  renewed  calling  for  "Jane 
West!"  The  audience  wanted  to  see  the  star  and 
the  author  side  by  side.  Pierre  joined  in  the 
clamor. 

After  a  little  pause  Jane  West  came  out  from 
the  opposite  wing,  walking  slowly,  dressed  in  her 
green  gown,  jewels  on  her  neck  and  in  her  hair. 
She  did  not  look  toward  the  audience  at  all,  nor 
bow,  nor  smile,  and  for  some  reason  the  ap- 
plause began  to  falter  as  though  the  sensitive 
mind  of  the  crowd  was  already  aware  that  here 
something  must  be  wrong.  She  came  very  slowly, 
her  arms  hanging,  her  head  bent,  her  eyes  look- 


292  The  Estray 

ing  up  from  under  her  brows,  and  she  stood  be- 
side Prosper  Gael,  whose  forced  smile  had  stiff- 
ened on  his  lips.  He  looked  at  her  in  obvious 
fear,  as  a  man  might  look  at  a  dangerous  mad- 
woman. There  must  have  been  madness  in  her 
eyes.  She  stood  there  for  a  strange,  terrible 
moment,  moving  her  head  slightly  from  side  to 
side.  Then  she  said  something  in  a  very  low 
tone.  Because  of  the  extraordinary  carrying 
quality  of  her  voice  —  the  question  was  heard 
by  every  one  there  present: 

"  You  wrote  the  play?  You  wrote  the  play?" 

She  said  it  twice.  She  seemed  to  quiver,  to 
gather  herself  together,  her  hands  bent,  her  arms 
lifted.  She  flew  at  Prosper  with  all  the  sudden 
strength  of  her  insanity. 

There  was  an  outcry,  a  confusion.  People 
rushed  to  Gael's  assistance.  Men  caught  hold  of 
Joan,  now  struggling  frantically.  It  was  a  dread- 
ful sight,  mercifully  a  brief  one.  She  collapsed 
utterly,  fell  forward,  the  strap  of  her  gown  break- 
ing in  the  grasp  of  one  of  the  men  who  held  her. 
For  an  instant  every  one  in  the  audience  saw  a 
strange  double  scar  that  ran  across  her  shoulder 
to  the  edge  of  the  shoulder-blade.  It  was  like  two 
bars. 

Pierre  got  to  his  feet,  dropped  back,  and  hid 


The  Leopardess  293 

his  face.  Then  he  was  up,  and  struggling  past 
excited  people  down  the  row,  out  into  the  aisle, 
along  it,  hurrying  blindly  down  unknown  pas- 
sages till  somehow  he  got  himself  into  that  con- 
fused labyrinth  behind  the  scenes.  Here  a  pale, 
distracted  scene-shifter  informed  him  that  Miss 
West  had  already  been  taken  home. 

Pierre  got  the  address,  found  his  way  out  to 
the  street,  hailed  a  taxicab,  and  threw  himself 
into  it.  He  sat  forward,  every  muscle  tight;  he 
felt  that  he  could  take  the  taxicab  up  and  hurl 
it  forward,  so  terrible  was  his  impatience. 

An  apartment  house  was  a  greater  novelty  to 
him  even  than  a  theater,  but,  after  a  dazed  mo- 
ment of  discovering  that  he  did  not  have  to  ring 
or  knock,  but  just  push  open  the  great  iron- 
scrolled  door  and  step  into  the  brightly  lighted, 
steam-heated  marble  hall,  he  decided  that  the 
woman  at  the  desk  was  a  person  in  authority, 
and  to  her  he  addressed  himself,  soft  hat  gripped 
in  his  hand,  his  face  set  to  hide  excitement. 

The  girl  was  pale  and  red-eyed.  They  had 
brought  Miss  West  in  a  few  minutes  ago,  she  told 
him,  and  carried  her  up.  She  was  still  unconscious; 
poor  thing!  "I  don't  think  you  could  see  her,  sir. 
Mr.  Morena  is  up  there,  and  Mr.  Gael,  and  a 
doctor.  A  trained  nurse  has  been  sent  for.  Every- 


£94  The  Estray 

thing  in  the  world  will  be  done.  She's  such  an 
elegant  actress,  ain't  she?  I've  often  seen  her 
myself.  And  so  kind  and  pleasant  always.  Yes, 
sir.  I  '11  ask,  if  you  like,  but  I  'm  sure  they  won't 
allow  you  up." 

She  put  the  receiver  to  her  ear,  pushed  in  the 
black  plug,  and  Pierre  listened  to  her  questions. 

"Can  Miss  West  see  any  one?  Can  an  old 
friend "  —  for  so  Pierre  had  named  himself  — • 
"be  allowed  to  see  her?  No.  I  thought  not."  This, 
with  a  sympathetic  glance  at  Pierre.  "She  is  not 
conscious  yet.  Dangerously  ill." 

"Could  I  speak  to  the  doctor?"  Pierre  asked 
hoarsely. 

"The  gentleman  wants  to  know  if  he  can 
speak  to  the  doctor.  Certainly  not  at  present.  If 
he  will  wait,  the  doctor  will  speak  to  him  on  the 
way  out." 

Pierre  sat  on  the  bench  and  waited.  He  leaned 
forward,  elbows  on  knees,  head  crushed  in  both 
hands,  and  the  woman  stared  at  him  pitilessly  — • 
not  that  he  was  aware  of  her  scrutiny.  His  eyes 
looked  through  his  surroundings  to  Joan.  He  saw 
her  in  every  pose  and  in  every  look  in  which  he 
had  ever  seen  her,  and,  with  a  very  sick  and 
frightened  heart,  he  saw  her,  at  the  last,  pass  by 
him  in  her  fur  coat,  throwing  him  that  half -con- 


The  Leopardess  295 

temptuous  look  and  smile.  She  did  n't  know  him. 
Was  he  changed  so  greatly?  Or  was  the  change 
in  her  so  enormous  that  it  had  disassociated  her 
completely  from  her  old  Me,  from  him?  He  kept 
repeating  to  himself  Holliwell's  stern,  admonish- 
ing speech:  "However  changed  for  the  worse  she 
may  be  when  you  do  find  her,  Pierre,  you  must 
remember  that  it  is  your  fault,  your  sin.  You 
must  not  judge  her,  must  not  dare  to  judge  her. 
Judge  yourself.  Condemn  yourself.  It  is  for  her 
to  forgive  if  she  can  bring  herself  to  do  it." 

So  now  Pierre  fought  down  his  suspicions  and 
his  fears.  He  had  not  recognized  Prosper.  The 
man  who  had  come  in  out  of  the  white  night,  four 
years  ago,  had  worn  his  cap  low  over  his  eyes, 
his  collar  turned  up  about  his  face,  and,  even  at 
that,  Pierre,  in  his  drunken  stupor,  had  not  been 
able  to  see  him  very  clearly.  This  Prosper  Gael 
who  had  stood  behind  the  footlights,  this  Prosper 
Gael  at  whom  Joan,  from  some  unknown  cause, 
had  sprung  like  a  woman  maddened  by  injury, 
was  a  person  entirely  strange  to  Pierre.  But 
Pierre  hated  him.  The  man  had  done  Joan  some 
insufferable  mischief,  which  at  the  last  had  driven 
her  beside  herself.  Pierre  put  up  a  hand,  pressing 
it  against  his  eyes.  He  wanted  to  shut  out  the 
picture  of  that  struggling  girl  with  her  torn  dress 


296  The  Estray 

and  the  double  scar  across  her  shoulder.  If  it 
had  n't  been  for  the  scar  he  would  never  have 
known  her  —  his  Joan,  his  gentle,  silent  Joan ! 
What  had  they  been  doing  to  her  to  change  her 
so?  No,  not  they.  He.  He  had  changed  her.  He 
had  branded  her  and  driven  her  out.  It  was  his 
fault.  He  must  try  to  find  her  again,  to  find  the 
old  Joan  —  if  she  should  live.  The  doctor  had 
said  that  she  was  desperately  ill.  O  God!  What 
was  keeping  him  so  long?  Why  did  n't  he  come? 

The  arrival  of  the  trained  nurse  distracted 
Pierre  for  a  few  moments.  She  went  past  him  in 
her  gray  cloak,  very  quiet  and  earnest,  and  the 
elevator  lifted  her  out  of  sight. 

"Were  you  in  the  theater  to-night?"  asked 
the  girl  at  the  desk,  seeing  that  he  was  tempo- 
rarily aware  of  her  again. 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

She  was  puzzled  by  his  appearance  and  the 
fashion  of  his  speech.  He  must  be  a  gentleman, 
she  thought,  for  his  bearing  was  gentle  and  as- 
sured and  unself-conscious,  but  he  wore  his 
clothes  differently  and  spoke  differently  from 
other  gentlemen.  That  "Yes,  ma'am,"  especially 
disturbed  her.  Then  she  remembered  a  novel  she 
had  read  and  her  mind  jumped  to  a  conclusion. 
She  leaned  forward. 


The  Leopardess  297 

"Say,  are  n't  you  from  the  West?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"You  were  n't  ever  a  cowboy,  were  you?" 

Pierre  smiled.  "Yes,  ma'am.  I  was  raised  in  a 
cow-camp.  I  was  a  cowboy  till  about  seven  years 
ago  when  I  took  to  ranchin'." 

"Where  was  that?" 

"Out  in  Wyoming." 

"And  you've  come  straight  from  there  to  New 
York?"  She  pronounced  it  "Noo  Yoik." 

"No,  ma'am.  I 've  been  in  Alasky  for  two  years 
now.  I*ve  been  in  a  lumber-camp." 

"Gee!  That's  real  interesting.  And  you  knew 
Miss  WTest  before  she  came  East,  then?" 

"Yes,  ma'am."  But  there  was  a  subtle  change 
in  Pierre's  patient  voice  and  clear,  unhappy  eyes, 
so  that  the  girl  fell  to  humming  and  bottled  up 
her  curiosity.  But  just  as  soon  as  he  began  to 
brood  again  she  gave  up  her  whole  mind  to  star- 
ing at  him.  Gee!  He  was  brown  and  strong  and 
thin !  And  a  good-looker !  She  wished  that  she  had 
worn  her  transformation  that  evening  and  her  blue 
blouse.  He  might  have  taken  more  interest  in  her. 

A  stout,  bald-headed  man,  bag  in  hand,  stepped 
out  of  the  elevator,  and  Pierre  rippled  to  his  feet. 

"Are  you  the  doctor?" 

"Yes.  Oh,  you're  the  gentleman  who  wanted 


298  The  Estray 

to  see  Miss  West.  She's  come  to,  but  she  is  out 
of  her  head  completely  .  .  .  does  n't  know  any 
one.  Can  you  step  out  with  me?" 

Pierre  kept  beside  him  and  stood  by  the  motor, 
hat  still  in  his  hand,  while  the  doctor  talked  irri- 
tably:  "No.  You  certainly  can't  see  her,  for  some 
time.  I  shall  not  allow  any  one  to  see  her,  except 
the  nurse.  It  will  be  a  matter  of  weeks.  She  '11  be 
lucky  if  she  gets  back  her  sanity  at  all.  She  was 
entirely  out  of  her  head  there  at  the  theater. 
She's  worn  out,  nerves  frayed  to  a  frazzle.  Hor- 
ribly unhealthy  life  and  unnatural.  To  take  a 
country  girl,  an  ignorant,  untrained,  healthy 
animal,  bring  her  to  the  city  and  force  her  under 
terrific  pressure  into  a  life  so  foreign  to  her  — 

well!  it  was  just  a  piece  of  d d  brutality." 

Then  his  acute  eye  suddenly  fixed  itself  on  the 
man  standing  on  the  curb  listening. 

"You're  from  the  West  yourself?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Knew  her  in  the  old  days  —  eh?" 

"Yes,  sir."  Pierre's  voice  was  faint  and  he  put 
a  hand  against  the  motor. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  take  her  back  with  you 
to  that  life?  You're  not  feeling  any  too  fit  your- 
self, are  you?  Look  here.  Get  in  and  I'll  drop  you 
where  you  belong." 


The  Leopardess  299 

Pierre  obeyed  rather  blindly  and  leaned  back 
with  closed  eyes.  The  doctor  got  out  a  flask  and 
poured  him  a  dose  of  brandy. 

"What's  the  trouble?  Too  much  New  York?" 

Pierre  shook  his  head  and  smiled.  "No,  sir. 
I ' ve  been  bothered  and  did  n't  get  round  to  eat- 
ing and  sleeping  lately." 

"Then  I'll  take  you  to  a  restaurant  and  we'll 
have  supper.  I  need  something  myself.  And,  look 
here,  I  '11  make  you  a  promise.  Just  as  soon  as  I 
consider  her  fit  for  an  interview  with  any  one, 
I  '11  let  you  see  Miss  West.  That  helps  you  a 
whole  lot,  does  n't  it?" 

But  there  were  other  powers,  besides  this 
friendly  one,  watching  over  Joan,  and  they  were 
bent  upon  keeping  Pierre  away.  Day  after  sicken- 
ing day  Pierre  came  and  stood  beside  the  desk, 
and  the  girl,  each  time  a  little  more  careless  of 
him,  a  little  more  insolent  toward  him  —  for  the 
cowboy  would  not  notice  her  blue  blouse  and  her 
transformation  and  the  invitation  of  her  eyes  — 
gave  him  negligent  and  discouraging  informa- 
tion. 

"Miss  West  was  better,  but  very  weak.  No. 
She  would  n't  see  any  one.  Yes,  Mr.  Morena 
could  see  her,  but  not  Mr.  Landis,  certainly  not 
Mr.  Pierre  Landis,  of  Wyoming." 


300  The  Estray 

And  the  doctor,  being  questioned  by  the  half- 
frantic  Westerner,  admitted  that  Mr.  Morena 
had  hinted  at  reasons  why  it  might  be  dangerous 
for  the  patient  to  see  her  old  friend  from  the 
West.  Pierre  stood  to  receive  this  sentence,  and 
after  it,  his  eyes  fell.  The  doctor  had  seen  the 
quick,  desperate  moisture  in  them. 

"I  tell  you  what,  Landis,"  he  said,  putting  a 
hand  on  Pierre's  shoulder.  "I'm  willing  to  take 
a  risk.  I  'm  sure  of  one  thing.  Miss  West  has  n't 
even  heard  of  your  inquiries." 

"You  mean  Morena's  making  it  up  —  about 
her  not  being  willing  to  see  me?" 

"I  do  mean  that.  And  no  doubt  he's  doing  it 
with  the  best  intentions.  But  I  'm  willing  to  take 
a  risk.  See  those  stairs?  You  run  up  them  to  the 
fifth  floor.  The  nurse  is  out.  Gael  is  in  attendance; 
that  is,  he 's  in  the  sitting-room.  She  does  n't 
know  of  his  presence,  has  n't  been  allowed  to 
see  him.  Miss  West's  door  —  the  outside  one  — 
is  ajar.  Go  up.  Get  past  Gael  if  you  can.  Behave 
yourself  quietly,  and  if  you  see  the  least  sign  of 
weakness  on  the  part  of  Miss  West,  or  if  she 
shows  the  slightest  disinclination  for  your  com- 
pany, come  down  —  I  'm  trusting  you  —  as 
quickly  as  you  can  and  tell  me.  I  '11  wait.  Have  I 
your  promise?" 


The  Leopardess  301 

!<Yes,  sir,"  gasped  Pierre. 

The  doctor  smiled  at  the  swift,  leaping  grace 
of  his  Western  friend's  ascent.  He  was  anxious 
concerning  the  result  of  his  experiment,  but  there 
was  a  memory  upon  him  of  a  haunted  look  in 
Joan's  eyes  that  seemed  the  fellow  to  a  look  of 
Pierre's.  He  rather  believed  in  intuitions,  espe- 
cially his  own. 


CHAPTER  XIH 
THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL 

AT  the  top  of  the  fourth  flight  of  steps,  Pierre 
found  himself  facing  a  door  that  stood  ajar. 
Beyond  that  door  was  Joan  and  he  knew  not 
what  experience  of  discovery,  of  explanation,  of 
punishment.  What  he  had  suffered  since  the 
night  of  his  cruelty  would  be  nothing  to  what  he 
might  have  to  suffer  now  at  the  hands  of  the 
woman  he  had  loved  and  hurt.  That  she  was  in- 
credibly changed  he  knew,  what  had  happened 
to  change  her  he  did  not  know.  That  she  had 
suffered  greatly  was  certain.  One  could  not  look 
at  the  face  of  Jane  West,  even  under  its  disguise 
of  paint  and  pencil,  without  a  sharp  realization 
of  profound  and  embittering  experience.  And, 
just  as  certainly,  she  had  gone  far  ahead  of  her 
husband  in  learning,  in  a  certain  sort  of  mental 
and  social  development.  Pierre  was  filled  with 
doubt  and  with  dread,  with  an  almost  unbear- 
able self -depreciation.  And  at  the  same  time  he 
was  filled  with  a  nameless  fear  of  what  Joan 
might  herself  have  become. 

He  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  that 


The  End  of  the  Trail  303 

half-opened  door,  bent  his  head,  and  drew  some 
deep,  uneven  breaths.  He  thought  of  Holliwell 
as  though  the  man  were  standing  beside  him.  He 
stepped  in  quietly,  shut  the  door,  and  walked 
without  hesitation  down  the  passageway  into 
the  little,  sunny  sitting-room.  There,  before  the 
crackling,  open  fire,  sat  Prosper  Gael. 

Prosper,  it  seemed,  was  alone  in  the  small, 
silent  place.  He  was  sitting  on  the  middle  of  his 
spine,  as  usual,  with  his  long,  thin  legs  stretched 
out  before  him  and  a  veil  of  cigarette  smoke 
before  his  eyes.  He  turned  his  head  idly,  expect- 
ing, no  doubt,  to  see  the  nurse. 

Pierre,  white  and  grim,  stood  looking  down  at 
him. 

The  older  man  recognized  him  at  once,  but  he 
did  not  change  his  position  by  a  muscle,  merely 
lounged  there,  his  head  against  the  side  of  the 
cushioned  chair,  the  brilliant,  surprised  gaze 
changing  slowly  to  amused  contempt.  His  ciga- 
rette hung  between  the  long  fingers  of  one  hand, 
its  blue  spiral  of  smoke  rising  tranquilly  into  a 
bar  of  sunshine  from  the  window. 

:<The  doctor  told  me  to  come  up,"  said  Pierre 
gravely.  He  was  aware  of  the  insult  of  this 
stranger's  attitude,  but  he  was  too  deeply  stirred, 
too  deeply  suspenseful,  to  be  irritated  by  it.  He 


304  The  Estray 

seemed  to  be  moving  in  some  rare,  disconnected 
atmosphere.  "I  have  his  permission  to  see  —  to 
see  Miss  West,  if  she  is  willing  to  see  me." 

Prosper  flicked  off  an  ash  with  his  little  finger. 
"And  you  believe  that  she  is  willing  to  see  you, 
Pierre  Landis?"  he  asked  slowly. 

Pierre  gave  him  a  startled  look.  "You  know 
my  name?" 

..  "Yes.  I  believe  that  four  years  ago,  on  an  espe- 
cially cold  and  snowy  night,  I  interrupted  you 
in  a  rather  extraordinary  occupation  and  gave 
myself  the  pleasure  of  shooting  you."  With  that 
he  got  to  his  feet  and  stood  before  the  man- 
tel, negligently  enough,  but  ready  to  his  finger- 
tips. 

Pierre  came  nearer  by  a  stride.  He  had  been 
stripped  at  once  of  his  air  of  high  detachment. 
He  was  pale  and  quivering.  He  looked  at  Prosper 
with  eyes  of  incredulous  dread. 

"Were  you  —  that  man?"  A  tide  of  shamed 
scarlet  engulfed  him  and  he  dropped  his  eyes. 

"I  thought  that  would  take  the  assurance  out 
of  you,"  said  Prosper.  "As  a  matter  of  fact, 
shooting  was  too  good  for  you.  On  that  night  you 
forfeited  every  claim  to  the  consideration  of  man 
or  woman.  I  have  the  right  of  any  decent  citizen 
to  turn  you  out  of  here.  Do  you  still  maintain 


The  End  of  the  Trail  305 

your  intention  of  asking  for  an  interview  with 
Miss  Jane  West?" 

Pierre,  half-blind  with  humiliation,  turned 
without  a  word  and  made  his  way  to  the  door. 
He  meant  to  go  away  and  kill  himself.  The  pur- 
pose was  like  iron  in  his  mind.  That  he  should 
have  to  stand  and,  because  of  his  own  cowardly 
fault,  to  endure  insult  from  this  contemptuous 
stranger,  made  of  life  a  garment  too  stained,  too 
shameful  to  be  worn.  He  was  in  haste  to  be  rid 
of  it.  Something,  however,  barred  his  exit.  He 
stumbled  back  to  avoid  it.  There,  holding  aside 
the  curtain  in  the  doorway,  stood  Joan. 

This  time  there  was  no  possible  doubt  of  her 
identity.  She  was  wrapped  in  a  long,  blue  gown, 
her  hair  had  fallen  in  braided  loops  on  either  side 
of  her  face  and  neck.  The  unchanged  eyes  of  Joan 
under  her  broad  brows  looked  up  at  him.  She  was 
thin  and  wan,  unbelievably  broken  and  tired  and 
hurt,  but  she  was  Joan.  Pierre  could  not  but  for- 
get death  at  sight  of  her.  He  staggered  forward, 
and  she,  putting  up  her  arms,  drew  him  hungrily 
and  let  fall  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 

"My  gel!  My  Joan!"  Pierre  sobbed. 

Prosper's  voice  sawed  into  their  tremulous 
silence. 

"So,  after  all,  the  branding  iron  is  the  proper 


306  The  Estray 

instrument,'*  he  said.  "A  man  can  always  recog- 
nize his  estray,  and  when  she  is  recognized  she 
will  come  to  heel." 

Joan  pushed  Pierre  from  her  violently  and 
turned  upon  Prosper  Gael.  Her  voice  broke  over 
him  in  a  tumult  of  soft  scorn. 

"You  know  nothing  of  loving,  Prosper  Gael, 
not  the  first  letter  of  loving.  Nobody  has  learned 
that  about  you  as  well  as  I  have.  Now,  listen  and 
I  will  teach  you  something.  This  is  something 
that  7  have  learned.  There  are  worse  wounds 
than  I  had  from  Pierre,  and  it  is  by  the  hands  of 
such  men  as  you  are  that  they  are  given.  The 
hurts  you  get  from  love,  they  heal.  Pierre  was 
mad,  he  was  a  beast,  he  branded  me  as  though 
I  had  been  a  beast.  For  long  years  I  could  n't 
think  of  hun  but  with  a  sort  of  horror  in  my  heart. 
If  it  had  n't  been  for  you,  I  might  never  have 
thought  of  him  no  other  way  forever.  But  what 
you  did  to  me,  Prosper,  you  with  your  white-hot 
brain  and  your  gray-cold  heart,  you  with  your 
music  and  your  talk  throbbing  and  talking  and 
whining  about  my  soul,  what  you  did  to  me  has 
made  Pierre's  iron  a  very  gentle  thing.  I  have 
not  acted  in  the  play  you  wrote,  the  play  you 
made  out  of  me  and  my  unhappiness,  without 
understanding  just  what  it  was  that  you  did  to 


The  End  of  the  Trail  307 

me.  Perhaps  if  it  had  n't  been  for  the  play,  I 
might  even  have  believed  that  you  were  capable 
of  something  better  than  that  passion  you  had 
once  for  me  —  but  not  now.  Never  now  can  I 
believe  it.  What  you  make  other  people  suffer 
is  material  for  your  own  success  and  you  delight 
in  it.  You  make  notes  upon  it.  Pierre  was  mad 
through  loving  me,  too  ignorantly,  too  jealously, 
but  what  you  did  to  me  was  through  loving  me 
too  little.  That  was  a  brand  upon  my  brain  and 
soul.  Sometimes  since  then  that  scar  on  my  shoul- 
der has  seemed  to  me  almost  like  the  memory  of 
a  caress.  I  went  away  from  Pierre,  leaving  him 
for  dead,  ready  for  death  myself.  When  you  left 
me,  you  left  me  alive  and  ready  for  what  sort  of 
living?  It  has  been  Pierre's  love  and  his  following 
after  me  that  have  kept  me  from  low  and  beastly 
things.  I  've  run  from  him  knowing  I  was  n't  fit 
to  be  found  by  him,  but  I  've  run  clean  and  free." 
She  began  to  tremble.  "Will  you  say  anything 
more  to  me  and  to  my  man?" 

Prosper's  face  wore  its  old  look  of  the  winged 
demon.  He  was  cold  in  his  angry  pain. 

"Just  one  thing  to  your  man,  perhaps,  if  you 
will  allow  me,  but  perhaps  you  '11  tell  him  that 
yourself.  That  his  method  is  the  right  one,  I  ad- 
mit. But  in  one  respect  not  even  a  brand  will  alto- 


SOS  The  Estray 

gether  preserve  property  rights.  Morena  could 
say  something  on  that  score.  So  could  I  ..." 

"Hush!"  said  Joan;  "I  will  tell  him  myself. 
Pierre,  I  left  you  for  dead  and  I  went  away  with 
this  man,  and  after  a  while,  because  I  thought 
you  were  dead,  and  because  I  was  alone  and  sor- 
rowful and  weak,  and  because,  perhaps,  of  what 
my  mother  was,  I  —  I  — "  She  fell  away  from 
Pierre,  crouched  against  the  side  of  the  door,  and 
wrapped  the  curtain  round  her  face.  "He  told 
me  you  were  dead  — "  The  words  came  muffled. 

Pierre  had  let  her  go  and  turned  to  Prosper. 
His  own  face  was  a  mask  of  rage.  Prosper  knew 
that  it  was  the  Westerner's  intention  to  kill.  For 
a  minute,  no  longer,  he  was  a  lightning  channel 
of  death.  But  Pierre,  the  Pierre  shaped  during 
the  last  four  difficult  years,  turned  upon  his  own 
writhing,  savage  soul  and  forced  it  to  submit.  It 
was  as  though  he  fought  with  his  hands.  Sweat 
broke  out  on  him.  At  last,  he  stood  and  looked  at 
Prosper  with  sane,  stern  eyes. 

"If  that's  true  what  you  hinted,  if  that's  true 
what  she  was  tryin'  to  tell,  if  it's  even  partly 
true,"  he  said  painfully,  "then  it  was  me  that 
brought  it  upon  her,  not  you  —  an'  not  herself, 
but  me." 

He  turned  back  to  Joan,  drew  the  curtain 


The  End  of  the  Trail  309 

from  her  face,  drew  down  her  hands,  lifted  her 
and  carried  her  to  the  couch  beside  the  fire. 

There  she  shrank  away  from  him,  tried  to 
push  him  back. 

"It's  true,  Pierre;  not  that  about  Morena,  but 
the  rest  is  true.  It's  true.  Only  he  told  me  you 
were  dead.  But  you  were  n't  —  no,  don't  take 
my  hands.  I  never  did  have  dealings  with  Holli- 
well.  Indeed,  I  loved  only  you.  But  you  must 
have  known  me  better  than  I  knew  myself.  For 
I  am  bad.  I  am  bad.  I  left  you  for  dead  and  I 
went  away." 

He  had  mastered  her  hands,  both  of  them  in 
one  of  his,  and  he  drew  them  close  to  his  heart. 

"Don't  Joan!  Hush,  Joan!  You  mustn't.  It 
was  my  doings,  gel,  all  of  it.  Hush!" 

He  bent  and  crushed  his  lips  against  hers, 
silencing  her.  Then  she  gave  way  and  clung  to 
him,  sobbing. 

After  a  while  Pierre  looked  up  at  Prosper  Gael. 
All  the  patience  and  the  hunger  and  the  beauty 
of  his  love  possessed  his  face.  There  was  simply 
no  room  in  his  heart  for  any  lesser  thing. 

"Stranger,"  he  said  in  the  grave  and  gentle 
Western  speech,  "I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  leave 
me  with  my  wife." 

Prosper  made  a  curious,  silent  gesture  of  self- 


310  The  Estray 

despair  and  went  out,  feeling  his  way  before 
him. 

It  was  half  an  hour  later  when  the  doctor  came 
softly  to  the  door  and  held  back  the  curtain  in 
his  hand.  He  did  not  say  anything  and,  after  a 
silent  minute,  he  let  fall  the  curtain  and  moved 
softly  away.  He  was  reassured  as  to  the  success 
of  his  experiment.  He  had  seen  Joan's  face. 


THE  END 


Gte  Ctiberjribe  prr«< 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U  .   »   .  A 


A     000114087     0 


